
Book 3 



Copyright N°_ 



exf 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/diarylettersofseOOcamp 



The Diary-Letters of 
Sergt. Peyton Randolph Campbell 






The Diary-Letters of 
Sergt. Peyton Randolph Campbell 

Published by 

Pratt & Lambert-Inc. 

as a Tribute to 

The members of the Pratt & Lambert Family who 
died for — and served in — the Cause of Democracy 




fCAPT. W. GRESHAM ANDREWS 

F. ANKNER 

SERGT. A. H. BERGO 
fPRANK BERLIN 

GEORGE W. BERNS 
*GEORGE BIERBAUM 

EUGENE BRONSON 

H. BROWN 

JOHN W. CAMERON 
*SERGT. P. RANDOLPH CAMPBELL 

LIEUT. DON L. CLEMENT 

PETER CORK 

SERGT. CLARENCE H. COX 

A. J. CRAMSIE 
tcORP. M. V. DUNHAM, JR. 

JOSEPH DUSSING 
*CHAS. J. FICKEL 

PETER P. FISCHER 

JOHN GALLAGHER 
fcORP. ALBERT GRUNTZ 

AUGUST HAMBRUCH 

THOMAS HARRIS 

P. J. HASTINGS 

JOHN M. HENTGES 

CORP. JOSEPH A. JUENKER 

FRED W. KAMMON 

D. J. KELLER 

OLIVER M. KERWIN 



JOHN KOONS 

LEO W. LAUCK 

HAROLD LEIGHTON 

ALEXANDER C. MACAULET 

HENRY P. MICHELS 

FRANK A. MORRISON 

LIEUT. T. EMERSON MURPHY 

CORP. THOMAS J. MURTHA 

L. EARL OSBORN 

M. C. PAUL 

LIEUT. CLARENCE C. PRENTICE 

MELVIN J. RENSINK 

STANLEY RIHA 

W. H. ROBINSON 

EDWARD W. ROE 

CHARLES W. SCOTT 
fRAY J. 8HEEHAN 

CLARENCE H. SMITH 

OLIVER C. SMITH 

LEO E. WEHNER 
fPRESCOTT M. WHITE 
*CORP. T. C. WILLIAMS 

GEORGE WOLFE 

STANLEY E. WOLGATE 

JOHN WOOD 

LIEUT. W. C. WOODYARD 

CHAS. C. ZABALDO 



^Indicates those killed in action. ^Indicates those wounded. 



Copyright, 1919, by 
Robert W. H. Campbell 

Buffalo, N. Y. 



JAN 25 1919 

©CI. A. 111405 



The Diary-Letters of 
Sergt. Peyton Randolph Campbell 



Published by 

Pratt & Lambert-Inc. 

Buffalo, N. Y. 



January 1, 1919 







Sergt. Peyton Randolph Campbell 



Sergt. Peyton Randolph Campbell 

ON Wednesday, September 4, 1918, near Fismes, on 
the Vesle River, in France, a Hun shell landed in 
the midst of the machine gun unit of which Sergt. 
Peyton Randolph Campbell was a part, taking seven- 
teen men, including "Randy" or "Pete" as he was affec- 
tionately called. Entering Company D, 306th Machine 
Gun Battalion, as a private in the spring of 1918, "Randy" 
was soon promoted to Corporal, and a few days prior to 
his untimely death was made a Sergeant. 

Although only twenty-four years of age, he was old in 
the experience of his craft and was known as a master 
advertising man, having held the position of Assistant 
Advertising Manager of Pratt & Lambert-Inc. He will 
long be remembered in Buffalo as the writer of many 
of the most effective Second Liberty Loan newspaper ad- 
vertisements, particularly the facsimile newspaper front 
page, announcing the supposed invasion of this Country 
by the Germans. Subsequently, in a letter describing 
his experiences, he feelingly wrote: "What Fourth Liberty 
Loan copy I could write now!" 

Despite his youth, Sergeant Campbell had also at- 
tained no small success as a short-story and song writer. 
His talents were varied and manifold, which makes his 
loss the more keenly felt by the many who knew him. 
"Randy's" sunny disposition and friendship, with which he 
was so generous, won him many friends who will find in 
these pages characteristic touches of humor and philosophy. 

Aboard the troopship, on the way overseas, he started 
a diary-letter which he faithfully kept up daily and sent 



to his mother. In these diary-letters — the whole of which 
are reproduced in this book — "Randy" displays his de- 
scriptive powers to their best advantage. He saw not 
only the big things of life — and the War, particularly — 
but also the lesser details, and these, with the true writer's 
skill, he has chronicled most interestingly. 

"Randy" did his duty as he saw it. When the call, 
came he went gladly, and when his time came he undoubt- 
edly laid down his life for his Country as freely and will- 
ingly as he had performed his daily tasks. 



Note — The long dashes in the text of these diary-letters indicate portions 
deleted by censors. 



The Diary-Letters of 
Sergt. Peyton Randolph Campbell 

Monday, April 15th 

At last, and for the first time since I hopped the train 
for camp, I've begun to "realize the war." I've gone 
through the fullest and most fascinating three days of my 
life. I'm in my seat at mess-table, in the room on the 
ship that has been assigned to our company. Quarters 
have been fixed up in what was once the hold, two decks 
below the main deck. When our room was shown to us, 
the main question immediately was "But where do we 
sleep?" — because there was nothing in the room but 
mess-tables and seats. Eventually, however, the problem 
was solved, and when evening came there blossomed forth 
from the ceiling one solid forest of hammocks, the most 
inextricable miz-maze you could imagine; hammocks, 
interlocking, hung over and under each other, criss-cross; 
and straight ropes and cords making a regular cobweb 
through which the electric lights peeked spookily. The 
quarters are close, as is usual on shipboard, but the ven- 
tilation is good, and the place is spotless and kept so. 
Incidentally, I've fallen in love with hammock slumber. 

I really should go back to the beginning — to the time 
when we left camp. We swept the barracks clean, packed 
our barrack bags and ran them off in the wagons to the 
station. Then we made up our packs, shouldered them, 
and made our way outside, in slush and rain, said goodbye 
to our old home, and were cheered by the rookies who now 
inhabit it, and by the few "old fellows" like ourselves 
who were still left in the one end of camp. Then and there 
I experienced the first real, honest-to-goodness, double- 
dyed thrill that I've had since I first saw the endless 
stretches of our camp. I felt, for once, like a real cru- 
sader. Then followed — I'm old enough now to be used 
to anti-climaxes — one of those mysterious army orders, 

9 



brought up by the headquarters orderly. "Column right 
— column right!" and we were on our way baok to the 
barracks, meeting the good-humored jeers of the on- 
lookers. "What's the matter — is the war over?" and 
"Trust those machine gunners to make a quick job of it," 
and the like. Then back into that bare, cold barracks 
we went and sat, with packs on our backs, waiting. Fi- 
nally the order to proceed arrived, and off we went again 
to the station to entrain for — where? The name on the 
railway coaches told us a little, but not much. I was lucky 
in being one of ten fellows who "overflowed" into a car 
that was by no means crowded. We were all good pals 
and were quite comfortable. Some of the joy was taken 
out of life when we found that we had to guard both ends 
of the car, because all the other men in the car were in 
branches of the service that don't or can't stand guard — 
"medics" and the like. So "Randy" didn't get much sleep 
that night. 

Next morning we quietly rolled out onto a pier in (gee, 
I wish I could tell you where) and entered a big waiting 
room, from the windows of which we could see our ship. 
We were served breakfast on the pier, and shortly after 
noon were admitted, one by one, to the ship and our 
quarters. Well, that night we pulled out — and landed 
plunk into the tail end of a nor'easter that had been blow- 
ing for three days! Everybody — except an occasional 
hardy one — among whom I was not — was sick. I was 
very sick — didn't care much what happened to me. Dur- 
ing the night, however, the storm abated, and by the 
next morning, things were not so bad. All day we plowed 
through the ocean, out of sight of land. You may imagine 
our surprise, then, when the news came that instead of 
being in the middle of the ocean, we were off a well-known 
American port ! A long train ride — a day and a night out 
of sight of land, and a lovely storm, with wave-washed 
decks and all that, and then back in America again. 

Tuesday, April 16 th 

There was an interesting break in the pleasant mo- 
notony of the late afternoon. Someone spied a dark spot 
in the water. Almost immediately a red rocket went up 

10 



from it — then another — and as we neared it, we discovered 
that we had run across a broken-down hydroplane. We 
hove to and turned about, and as we drew near it, ex- 
changed signals with the two aviators who were clinging 
to it. They had been adrift for three hours, with night 
almost upon them, and believe me, they were mighty 
lucky to be picked up. We landed the men, and towed 

the machine to the vicinity of . And there we lay at 

anchor for two full days! Finally we moved — with other 
ships. (I can't say how many.) If these first four pages 
seem queer or inconsistent, it's because I've had to copy 
them with a censor's eye, and leave out (of course) most 
of the interesting parts. Good-night. I'm going to bed 
and see if I can't fool Old Man Neptune. 

Wednesday, April 17th 

Well, my little trick was a success and I cheated Old 
Man Ocean out of one victim for eight straight hours of 
slumber. When I awoke, it was only through the gentle 
ministrations of an iron-shod heel, the same belonging to 
a buck private in a neighboring hammock. He was trying 
to disembark from his hammock, and was evidently using 
me as a means to an end. Oh, well! Say, this is a circus — 
trying to write at a mess-table down in our hold, with 
sock-clad feet dangling almost on your very writing- 
table, while their owners are busily engaged in unslinging 
their hammocks from the ceiling. The persiflage that is 
flying about, even if it could be expurgated for civilian 
ears (especially feminine ones!) would still create a sensa- 
tion if it could ever be caught and put down on paper. 
There's no question about it, the germ of real humor 
grows to fullest glory when you're up against it, and things 
aren't all they might be. 

Today has been more or less uneventful. I've been on 
"table duty" today, which means that I scrubbed the 
table and the floor under it, stood in line for hours, it 
seemed, getting hot water that was cold by the time we 
were ready to use it, scrubbed the pails and pans, and all 
those nice little things. However, I'm glad I got it on a 
muggy, foggy day instead of a nice one. 

11 



I've just had a lovely new job handed me. I'm one of 
nine men out of the forty-five in our lifeboat who are 
to act as boat-guards. For the present we simply have 
to report for duty twice daily, five minutes before boat 
drill, but when we get into the danger zone, we'll be reg- 
ular guards, on two hours and off four — and we'll be up 
there sitting in the boats, over the side of the vessel, with 
our life preservers on and a pair of busy binoculars in our 
hands. I don't know whether it's going to be more inter- 
esting to watch for "subs" by day or to be waiting for them 
during the long, cold, breezy watches along about three 
or four A. M. It's going to be a bit strenuous, but I'm 
glad of the opportunity — it's getting to be mighty inter- 
esting. Well, good-night — "Uncle Pete" is going to hang 
up his little hammock and turn in. There's a gentleman 
immediately above my table whose hammock hangs low, 
and every time the ship rolls, he bumps me and reminds 
me it is bedtime. 

Thursday, April 18th 

Today has been a strange medley of the fantastic and 
the ultra-real. I've been reading Cathedrals and Clois- 
ters of Southern France — and every little while there 'd 
be interruptions — the blare of an insistent bugle playing 
"to horse," and the signal for "abandon ship" drill — or a 
summons to exercises, physical examination or mess — all 
of which happen every day, but which nevertheless, you 
will admit, are liable to tear one rather abruptly from the 
pontifical pomp and pagan ferocity. The day passed 
uneventfully, the real events of the day beginning, for 
me, at six o'clock, when I went on duty as "orderly at 
headquarters" — an arrangement contrived by our bully 
top-sergeant for the sole purpose of getting one or two of 
us each day within reach of a real hot-water bath! As a 
duty, it was a joke. I carried two little messages between 
six and six-thirty, and the rest of the evening I was sitting 
up on the saloon deck, pretending I was sailing the high 
seas for the fun of it. Then (being still on duty), I turned 
in for the night in the saloon smoking room, and remained 
undisturbed until morning. But during the watches of 
the night I acquired that precious bath. 

12 



Friday, April 19th 

When I woke up, the sea was more beautiful than I 
have ever seen it — all silver and steel-gray, with the crest 
of the waves pure white, and underneath the foam a 
strange blue-green — a composite of bottle-green and my 
childhood favorite pistachio ice cream. I stood there for 
twenty minutes on the deserted deck and watched the 
sea running. Later in the day, quite a blow came up, 
and the old tub started to roll all over the place. The 
boys seem to have gotten their sea legs very nicely, and 
they were all on deck this afternoon, watching the fun, 
and getting an occasional drenching for their temerity. I 
was among the unfortunates who managed to be in the 
way when we "shipped a sea," but I didn't get soaked 
through and rather enjoyed it. Later we changed our 
course and tonight the ship is rolling quite gently. I've 
been "in charge of quarters" this afternoon and evening, 
and so have been confined most of the time in the re- 
gions below decks. I'm rather puzzled at my appoint- 
ment, because the man in charge of quarters is supposed 
to be a "non-com," which I am not — yet. Mebbe that 
means that before long I'll be a something better than 
an acting corporal. Here's hoping — and gosh! how "Uncle 
Pete" will work if he does get it! 

We may get a chance to go up and entertain the officers 
tomorrow night. I (even I) am a member of the Co. D 
Sextette, which holds forth on deck when the weather's 
fine. I hope we go — and gee, how I hope they feed us!! 

Well, the hour of nine is approaching, and nowadays 
to me that means bedtime, so good-night. 

Saturday, April 20th 

Today has been a holiday for me — and a strangely 
uneventful one, too, for a soldier on the high seas, speeding 
to the submarine zone. I've had not a single detail all 
day, and I've made the most of it. This morning the sea 
was quite rough and the sky overcast, but by drill-time 
it had cleared and calmed considerably. I had an inter- 
esting glimpse of the heterogeneousness of our National 
Army this morning, when I was lying on the hatchway 

13 



buried in the Cathedrals of France, and absorbing more 
than my share of cold, salt sea breeze. All at once a near 
neighbor, a perfectly drab-looking ordinary buck private, 
said, "Pardon me, but may I see the title of that book?" 
I showed it to him, and soon found that he was a deep 
student of architecture, a man of no small amount of 
culture. That, to me, is proving the most interesting part 
of my army experience — mingling with an endless horde 
of men, of all stations in life, and with interests, ambitions 
and abilities as widely scattered as leaves on the wind — 
all doing their "squads right" with varied thoughts. I 
opened up a new phase of a pleasant acquaintanceship 
last night. I've liked Pte. Schmitt of our company 
ever since I met him, but we've never exchanged anything 
more than the simplest comments on the weather and the 
aches incident to the captain's physical drill, or the size 
of our daily mail. Last night, however, we happened to 
get a bit below the surface, and to my joy and surprise I 
found him an artist of merit, a designer of jewelry, a 
devotee of music and the arts, and a fellow of very unusual 
perceptions. We'll see a good deal more of each other 
now. And to think that out of a hundred and seventy- 
two men, I've hardly "discovered" a dozen. Isn't that 
unexplored virgin ground enough for any dabbler in the 
verities? 

But to come back to the day. We weren't invited to 
sing, and I'm just as glad, because from all I hear, the 
programme was very fine, and would have put us com- 
pletely in the shade. So instead of warbling, I went in to 
see one of our fellows who is in the hospital, and was 
pleased to find him almost "like new." Then I went out 
and trod the deck for a half hour or so. The night is the 
most beautiful we've had yet; a waxing moon was bright 
enough tonight to show up all the other vessels in our 
troop — I wish I could tell you their names. You'd know 
some of them, I'm sure. The rest of the evening Schmitt, 
Clubley and I spent in scribbling foolish sketches and then 
I continued my efforts alone. As for bedtime — tonight's 
breeze and moon have chased all my sleepiness away, but, 
strange as it may seem (it's only eleven-thirty), it's coming 

14 



on me again. By the way, wish us luck, we are going to 
go scooting through the war zone illuminated by the bril- 
liance of a full moon. 

Sunday, April 21st 

This has been a little more like Sunday than our last 
Sabbath on board, although the nearest I came to church 
was a class in elementary French. This morning dawned 
clear and cold. I hear we're out of the Gulf Stream — none 
of us knew we'd been in it until we went on deck and 
almost congealed. That's always the way — we don't 
appreciate our blessings until they're flown. Still, it was 
pretty "comfy" (with an overcoat) up on the deck in the 
sun, sprawled out on the canvas hatchway like a tiger 
rug on a hall floor. The catholicity of my taste in litera- 
ture surprises even me — I've shifted from Medieval Cathe- 
drals to Mary Car stairs, and I'm quite as absorbed as 
before. Then we had a band concert, too — quite fine, but 
not quite as "raggy" as one might have wished. We're 
nearing the danger zone now, and of course, the rumorists 
are beginning their work; every porpoise and bit of flot- 
sam is a "submarine," and gathers an attentive crowd of 
watchers for a moment or two. 

What do we do with our evenings? Well, of course, 
there's always the deck — but there's also our kennel in 
the hold, which is beginning to feel strangely like home. 
Most of us have been down there all the evening. Over 
in the far corner the bills and coins are flashing in a friendly 
poker game; behind me is the inimitable jargon of "craps" 
punctuated by the dice rolling on the table top; beside me 
is Schmitt, sketching a pencil portrait of Given, who, in 
turn, is chatting with Charlie Sorce, our little four-foot- 
ten Sicilian mascot; beyond them is a group engaged in 
conversation. During the instants when I have paused 
while writing this the subjects have been: (1) Life aboard 
ship; (2) Whether the East Indian races are further ad- 
vanced in culture than we; (3) How the Pyramids were 
constructed; (4) What is the greatest thing in the world? — 
from which you may judge that in the space of ten minutes 
even a buck private can show considerable versatility. 
My good friend, Serg. Osterhus, ex-professor, is buried 

15 



in Benvenuto Cellini, while jolly Franchino, ex-furnace 
man, is struggling manfully with the Seeds of the Right- 
eous. A dozen or so weary souls are already snoozing 
over our heads in hammocks, that swing creakingly with 
the motion of the ship. Until I started scribbling, our 
quartette was adding to the variety by indulging in close 
harmony of a sort — and there's your "Sammy" in the 
army. Do you wonder it's hard for the aid societies to 
classify him, find out what "his" likes and dislikes are, and 
what they can best do to help him? There isn't any "him" 
— it's "them" any way you play it. The National Army 
is not a thing that can be treated as an aggregation of 
units any more than could the City of New York. The 
leopard cannot change his spots — and it isn't reasonable 
to expect that a uniform is a rigid enough mold to fashion 
a man into a military pawn. It's on that basis, though, 
that these societies are working — and that's the thing the 
boys resent. Forgive the osophy — I'm addicted to oso- 
phies, as you may recall. 

Now, I'm going to clamber up our two flights of nearly- 
ladders for a breath of air and a bit of clear-headed moonlit 
thought. 

Monday, April 22nd 

Today has been "just another day" in most respects. 
I've had my share of morning exercises, boat drill, mess, 
and Mary Carstairs — and I've finished her now, and 
am madly seeking to trade my precious volume for an- 
other. That's the way it works — there are twenty books 
in our quarters, and the only way you can be sure of hav- 
ing one is by the trading process. This afternoon the cap- 
tain held a meeting for the "non-coms," to which, to my 
joy, acting "n. c's." were invited. It was just a general 
little talk about sprucing up our military manners when 
we struck the other side, but it was very well put, and the 
fellows took it all in with evident interest. We were also 
given the methods of distinguishing foreign officers; and 
speaking of officers, the captain intimated that promotion 
on the other side would be quick — very quick for those 
who earned it. I know one little ad-man who's going to 
struggle his army boots off to earn it. As the captain puts 

16 



it, it's not merely a question of priority, here as it is in 
the regular army. Men will get promotions as they grow 
up to them, and the fellow who shows that he has given 
all he has won't progress any further. 

This evening Clubley and I have been up on the for- 
ward deck watching the waves. There's a very heavy 
sea running, and many of the waves tower far higher than 
our deck. Then the old hooker slides up to them, slips 
gently up the green, glossy side of the big roller, pauses 
for an instant on the crest, and toboggans madly down the 
other side, nearly always drenching some of the unwary 
who have selected an unlucky vantage point. The com- 
ments are, as usual, piquant. "I could make a million 
with this at Coney Island" got a laugh. Another voice in 
the crowd, as she slid up a big green slope, called out in 
the language of the morning exercises "In-n-hale!" Then, 
as she paused on the summit "Hol-ld it!" The whole 
crowd was ready in unison when the moment for "Ex- 
hale" came. Some of the other vessels in our convoy seem 
to be rolling quite as much as we, so we have at least a 
proxy opportunity to "see oursel's as ithers see us." 

Rumor has it that we'll see port by Friday. Rumor, 
be right for once, wontcha, old kid? We're soldiers, old 
fellow — not marines. Gee, I almost forgot. I was going 
up to the hospital to see Moran tonight. I think I'll say 
"bonne nuit," and chase up there now. 

Tuesday, April 2Srd 

Well, it's begun. At eleven o'clock this morning we 
reported for boat drill with life preservers on, and from 
that instant, it became a heinous crime to be seen 
without one on. We're allowed to sit on them at meals 
and sleep on them at night, but the rest of the time we 
wear them. And it certainly is funny to see the struggles 
of the kitchen police as they struggle up the steep com- 
panionways with pails and pans, crying "Gangway, 
Gangway!" in a hopeless sort of way. And on deck, with 
our overcoats buttoned outside them, we look for all the 
world like a lot of Dutch burgomasters out for an airing. 
You'd laugh to see how the fellows welcomed the belt 

17 



order. To them it spells, not approaching danger, but 
merely nearing that longed-for dry land — France or Eng- 
land — who knows? 

Wednesday, April 24th 

Oh, boy! — at last we've gotten into a real storm — a 
raging, tearing sou'easter that's whistling through the 
rigging, blowing things away and breaking over the deck 
in solid masses of green water — not mere spray. I stayed 
up on deck till they chased us all off, and now — it's three 
o'clock — we're all below, falling more or less over each 
other as the old hooker rolls and lurches from side to side. 
I've been on table duty again today — and as a result was 
beautifully sick again. However, it's all in the game. 

Lieut. Harris has just come below to tell us how to 
recognize foreign officers. After that he'll conduct a 
French class. Our officers have been mighty good about 
leaving their comfortable quarters upstairs and coming 
down below here. A good many companies have seen 
their officers comparatively little since we left. (I had 
intended to end this day's journal without more ado, but 
there is an event to chronicle. I went to bed about seven 
and got up again about nine to get a breath of air before 
retiring for good. I stood with my friend Thornton at 
the top of the companionway looking out over the deck, 
watching the waves break over the side of the ship. Sud- 
denly one big comber crashed against the starboard side 
of the ship with a heavy "Boom!" "Gosh," I said, "if we 
stay up here much longer, we're going to get wet" and I 
started down the two flights of stairs to our quarters. I 
arrived on the scene just in time to see the fag-end of a 
young panic. When the wave struck, someone called out 
"submarine!" and in two seconds the room was a mad- 
house — men rolling out of their hammocks on top of 
other men — others rushing for the stairs clutching their 
life preservers. Someone called "There's the bugle!" 
(purely imagination). Finally one hardy soul mounted 
a bench and yelled "Sit down, you blankety-blank fools! 
That was no 'sub'— it was a wave," and in five seconds it 
was all over but the post-mortems. But it gives one a scare 

18 



to think what conditions might have been like if a real 
torpedo had struck the ship. However, the little scare 
may be a blessed warning to the harebrained ones. 

Thursday, April 25th 

"Randy's" been pretty miserable today, and as a result 
hasn't much to report. The further I go on this voyage, 
the more fully I am convinced that I'd never have made a 
good sailor in the Navy. 

This afternoon the boat-guard went (at last) on duty. 
The first shift went on at two o'clock, the second at four, 
and the third, one of which is your "Uncle Pete," went to 
work at six. It's eight now, and we've just been relieved, 
to go on again at midnight. This continues till the end 
of the voyage, which we're hoping will be mighty soon. 
There's a rumor that our hammocks are to be taken from 
us tomorrow. That may mean that we've only got one 
more night aboard — here's hopin' ! 

Our duties as guards are quite simple. There are four 
of us on duty — but I'm afraid if I were to describe our job 
I might be censored, so I guess I'll leave it to your cultured 
imagination. 

Friday, April 26th 

This has certainly been some day. I've been on boat- 
guard all day, and my eyes are pretty weary from con- 
stant use of the binoculars. We've been gazing pretty 
steadily, because the first fellow to sight a "sub" gets 
rewarded by the government — no small bonus, either. We 
had a little excitement this afternoon. All of a sudden, in 
response to a signal from somewhere, one of the destroyers 
turned about, raced back toward our rear, and shortly 
afterward we heard or rather felt the concussion of what 
we understood to have been a depth bomb. They must 
be very powerful, as I understand they do complete exe- 
cution for two hundred yards around the spot where they 
explode. That's the only time we've really felt we were 
in the war zone. Tonight is perhaps the most remarkable 
I've ever seen — the sea is like a mirror, and a huge round 
red full moon has just risen. It's hard to realize that we're 
in the middle of a "sub"-infested ocean. And to think that 

19 



any minute twenty-four feet of hell may break through 
the side of this room. I can't realize it, and as by actual 
statistics the chances are 2700 to 1 against our getting 
hit, I don't think there's much sense in trying to picture 
such remote possibilities. However, it lends a tang to the 
little adventure. 

As a result of a talk on censorship that our captain 
gave us today, I'm going to find it necessary to copy the 
first few pages of this screed, omitting some interesting, 
juicy bits from which Uncle Sammy fears the wily Hun 
might gather some advantage. I hate to chop up my 
diary, but orders is orders, same as "pigs is pigs." In the 
various small hiatuses that separate the incidents of our 
daily life, I have been reading voraciously. Today I picked 
up The Seeds of the Righteous, and tonight I finished 
it. Franchino may have liked it. I did. I've been think- 
ing off and on about things back at home (and thank God 
I can do that without getting homesick). 

Our hammocks were taken away, and tonight we're all 
sitting up. Before me is a funny scene. I can see Tolley 
writing a letter — Spencer shaving Durner, who is propped 
up quite comfortably against a life-preserver. The fel- 
lows at the next table are enjoying onion sandwiches 
—(stolen fruit). Beyond them there are groups, some 
playing poker, others at the ever-present "craps," a few 
are reading, while others are discussing the varied and 
various rumors that are floating around. The tales all 
seem equally authentic, but in spite of their infallibility 
the time of our arrival, as pictured by them, varies from 
ten this evening to three o'clock tomorrow afternoon. I 
hope to goodness one of them is right. 

Monday, April 29th 

We arrived safely at midnight day before yesterday at 
an English port, and the ship docked yesterday morning. 
Of course, the first thing 1 thought of was Plummer and 
the rest of them. Happening to be up in the captain's 
cabin on a message, 1 mentioned to him the fact that I 
had a brother here in England whom 1 had not seen in 
twelve years, and just wondered if it would be possible 

20 



to phone to him before we entrained. He said he did 
not know, but that he'd see what he could do. I thought 
no more of it, thinking that in the hurry of getting his 
company off the ship with the endless incidental details, 
he'd forget all about it. But Capt. Gillam's not that 
kind. When we got off the boat and lined up on the dock, 
I was called out of ranks, and the captain took a dollar 
from his own pocket, handed it to one of our lieutenants, 
told him to take Plummer's address, get the necessary 
English change, and phone him of our whereabouts and 
my presence, with the idea of letting him come and meet 
us at the station where we were to entrain. Well, he got 
the message and got to the station. I can't tell you how 
long a time he had to get there in, because that might 
betray where I was. Suffice it to say that he had not an 
instant to lose. And not only did he show up, but Peggy, 
too. She got there later by a few minutes, and inciden- 
tally just in time. The captain did everything on earth — 
even to sending one of our officers out with me to the bar- 
riers, so I could talk with them without having to worry 
about missing the train. Believe me, after that, there's 
very little I wouldn't do for Capt. Gillam — and because 
I was doing so much jumping in and out of ranks, the 
thing of course went round, and when I told the boys the 
story, it made a mighty profound impression. 

From port we went by train to a "rest camp" at Folke- 
stone. We are quartered in one of the former grand man- 
sions. Of course, it's only temporary, and in a few days 
we will go elsewhere. Nobody knows where, but it is my 
opinion that before long I may be blamed glad I saw 
Plummer when I did. However, we may of course, go to 
an English training camp, in which case, I'd have a won- 
derful time. Plummer and S'Edie have launched a huge 
scheme to supply vacations in British homes for American 
soldiers on leave. The idea is to do for them what their 
own families can't do — and more important still, to foster 
the new growing spirit of understanding between the two 
nations. He'd been hobnobbing with Lord Balfour, the 
American consul, and other bigwigs on the subject and is 
full of the work. Already they've had a lot of them to 

21 



entertain — they've been taking three a week at the Croft 
for several months. I think it's a wonderful idea, and one 
that will have a huge influence on Anglo-Saxon brother- 
hood after the war. 

It was interesting to see the awakening of our fellows 
to the wonders of England as the train rolled through the 
wonderful country. First they — some of them — had the 
Yankee public-school attitude towards Britain, that you 
still occasionally find. It began to wear off first, I think, 
when they saw the English "bobbies" — and then the 
clean, spotless streets and houses — and then the marvelous 
country simply hypnotized them and now they can't rave 
enough about the place. This is one of the most beautiful 
spots I've ever seen in my life and though the houses are, 
of course, for the most part deserted, because it is out of 
season, the lawns and gardens are ablaze with grass and 
flowers — it's a garden spot for fair. 

I'm feeling fine, although of course, tired from the trip. 
I expect to do a lot of "policing up" (military jargon for all 
sorts of cleaning, mending and sprucing) in the next 
noons, and so may be very busy during our brief "rest." 

You never saw anything like the determination of the 
people over here to win the war. They're all perfectly 
healthy despite the rationing, and they work like fury. 
Every square inch — golf courses, front lawns, railway 
rights of way — gardens everywhere, and all beautifully 
kept and green with that English green you don't find 
anywhere else. Because I've been over before, I'm asked 
about everything from the coinage to the lease-hold sys- 
tem of land owning — and I'm surprised to find how much 
of it I remember. 

Please send me as much hard chocolate (preferably 
Baker's eating chocolate) as you can buy. It's awfully 
hard to get over here. And keep on numbering your let- 
ters. I'm beginning with this to number mine. I wrote 
you yesterday — that was No. 1, although I didn't number 
it. Please don't worry if letters are infrequent. I'll try 
not to let them be, but Y. M. C. A.'s are packed, you 
only get just so much paper, and from what I foresee, 
our time will be still more limited. Incidentally, mails 
are irregular. 

22 



I've heard nothing about the rumor that soldiers can 
have packages sent them only by written request. So 
send me whatever occurs to you, but especially chocolate. 

Give my love to everybody, and tell them all for the 
love of Uncle Sam to write me oodles of letters without 
expecting a return in kind, because that is absolutely 
impossible. 

Wednesday, May 1st 

Here we are again in a different place ! We left England 
yesterday, and landed before long at a French port. We 
spent last night at a sort of "just-arrived" camp near the 
seacoast. We're still there this morning, and probably 
will be for a day or so, while we hand back to the Govern- 
ment practically all the equipment that they carefully 
issued to us back at home! At least that's the rumor. 
They say that we can take away from here only such 
stuff as we can carry. None of us know where we go from 
here — we're just sitting, waiting. We do know, though, 
that France is verra, verra cold, and the barrack floor 
(there are no bunks) is verra, verra hard. I've learned, 
though, that with a little effort one can conjure up a bed 
on a hard floor that is very comfortable. Mine last night 
was composed of four blankets, an overcoat, a slicker, a half 
of a shelter tent and two suits of underclothes ! The over- 
coat, tent and underclothes made a mattress, the slicker a 
pillow, and the blankets were used as per usual. One of 
our officers remarked yesterday to a Britisher "It's very 
cloudy and misty today, isn't it?" "Yes," said the Tommy, 
"and we're bloomin' glad of it, because the Germans 
bomb this camp every clear night." So we were quite 
satisfied to have it stay cloudy. Hun aeroplanes are 
probably pretty bum shots, but they might drop one down 
our necks by accident, y'know! 

We all hated like fury to leave . As I told you, it's 

what is called a "rest camp," where you do no drilling 
and no work. The food, cleaning up and all that is looked 
after by Allied soldiers who have recovered from wounds 
and been assigned to light duty. We went down and 
"did the town," visited all the stores and almost laughed 

23 



ourselves into hysterics — going to the "draper's" for 
handkerchiefs, to the "ironmonger's" for scissors, to the 
"chemist's" for a shaving brush, and all that. The British 
were all just as decent to us as they could be, and the fel- 
lows left England with a very different viewpoint on Eng- 
land and the British from the one most of them had when 

they landed. is a very interesting place — the most 

beautiful resort I've ever seen. Every house is a man- 
sion, and as for the esplanade along the water — mais quoi 
done — magnifique! Then in the early evening Asbury and 
I took a long tramp all through the lower, older, poorer 
and more interesting part of town, even as far down as 

old, where we found the most fascinating picturesque- 

ness of all. One little streetlet was little more than a 
pathway, though paved and guttered just like a toy 
boulevard. Crooked as an elbow, and slanting skyward 
from the water's edge, it was lined with quaint old shops 
and houses, and thronged with the most polyglot cosmo- 
politan horde you ever saw — old fishermen that seemed to 
have hopped out of a romance — queer old ladies and pretty 
English girls — and soldiers of every sort and kind — Bel- 
gians, English, French, Canadian and our own — and such 
a riot of color and style you never saw — no two soldiers 
of the Allied armies seem to dress alike — some had serv- 
ice stripes, others insignia of office and others special 
designations that made the sight a brilliant one. And 
over it all, silhoutted in brilliant blue against the jagged 
edge of the haphazard roof-lines, was a brilliant sky that 
seemed more like my idea of an Italian than an English one. 

On our travels we saw many things from car windows, 
but I think the most interesting to me was Cathe- 
dral. Gosh, what I'd have given to have gotten out and 
explored it! 

Well, now, I must skip and sort out my clothes in case 
they do decide to take 'em away from us. Goodbye — 
just now. 

Tuesday, May 7th 

Today we started real work! We didn't stop all day — 
drill, hike, races — and then the first of our instruction in 
handling gas-masks. O-o-oh! How we're going to swear 

24 



at that mask — and a little later how we'll bless it! The 
thing grips the end of your nose like a vise, grasps the edges 
of your face in a clasp that leaves a be-eautiful red pic- 
ture-frame around your visage — to breathe you have to 
blow in and out through a rubber mouthpiece, a long tube 
and a box of chemicals. Oh, it's a sweet little toy! And 
we're going to get an hour of him every day! 

Sunday, May 12th 

You may imagine how busy I've been when I tell you 
that for five days I've actually had too little time to write 
in my little diarette ! We've been having first call at 5 :45, 
reveille at six, breakfast shortly after, machine gun class 
at eight, lasting until the very instant of noon mess — 
then the same thing all afternoon until about four — after 
which we are rewarded for our day's labor by being per- 
mitted to play with the jolly little gas-masks for an hour! 
Then, with smutty noses (which besides being blackened 
by the rubber are also pinched red by the bulldog grippers 
that hold the nostrils closed) we trot off to evening mess — 
after which Asbury and I, usually with Sergt. Ford 
also, go tripping off to the village to enjoy our supper of 
eggs, coffee and whatever else we can scare up. The 
work with the machine guns is becoming very interesting, 
although I can't quite agree that a whole day of it without 
interruption for drill, hikes or exercise is good for the 
men. I presume, though, that the powers that be are 
planning to give us more strenuous physical exercise in 
some form that will help us in studying the gun, such as 
field manoeuvres — and that by absorbing a maximum of 
knowledge in a minimum of time, they'll be able to get 
better results from those later studies. 

We are working under experienced British "non-coms," 
who have all seen a lot of service with the Vickers, and 
have spent many months in study as well. The gun is a 
marvel ! 

Imagine if you can a machine that shoots six hundred 
shots a minute, that has over five hundred parts, which, 
nevertheless, can be taken entirely apart with a screw- 
driver and one other tool! Every part has a name, t'oo — 
big pieces and little pieces — and we all laughed our heads 

25 



off when the instructor showed us the "Side Lever Axis 
Bush Split Keeper-Pin." Here is a picture of it — actual 
size : **™A There's one man somewhere in England or 
France ^"^j for whom I have a profound respect. He's 
the fellow who named the parts of that gun ! Mr. Pullman 
would pay him handsomely, I'm sure, for christening 
sleeping cars! 

We had a bit of excitement the other night. I'm sorry 
to say that thanks to my blanket-pins and the sleeping- 
bag that I've made with 'em, I slept all through it! — but 
Thornton was outside and saw it all. There was an air 
raid somewhere within a very few miles, and the search- 
lights, he says, could be seen plainly sweeping the clouds 
looking for the Fokkers. He heard the rattle of the planes' 
machine guns and the noise of anti-aircraft fire from below. 
Then one of the "Fritzes" dropped two bombs. Nobody 
knows where they fell, and no report has come in of their 
having done any damage, but they shook our buildings 
and woke up a number of the fellows. Evidently I must 
be sleeping well. I can't tell whether I am or not, though, 
because from the time my head strikes my improvised 
pillow until that thrice-accursed bugle peal hits my ear, I 
don't know a thing! So I may be sleeping abominably — 
I'll have to sit up some night and find out (!). 

We were paid day before yesterday (Friday), and it 
was a circus! They had nothing but French money, of 
course, and as I understand it, paid each man to the near- 
est half-franc. I got seventy-five francs, which will come 
in handy, believe me, as my change was about exhausted. 
However, if the allotment comes through, remember 
your old pal and slip me a little "kale." It comes in very 
handy "over there." If I said too much on the subject 
it might be censored. 

This week I've received letters No. 1, 2, 4 and 5. That 
leaves 3 and 6 still to come. I got No. 7 at Camp Upton — 
and I hope, of course, that by this time Nos. 8 to 48 are 
on their way — and all fat! 

Last night all our joyful gloating over being machine 
gunners came to an end. They've issued us rifles — and 
now instead of being better off than the infantry, we're 

26 



"out o' luck," as the camp saying goes, with rifles and 
machine guns to clean ! — and to carry — whoopee ! ! 

And as squad leader I'm now the guardian of one Vickers 
.303 Water-cooled Automatic Machine Gun, one Mark 
IV Tripod, one case containing spare barrel, ramrod, etc., 
one box of spare parts, one wire rack, one leather carrying 
case, one condenser pipe, one water bag, fourteen ammu- 
nition boxes, one signal rocket pistol and a dozen or so 
other odds and ends that I can't recall just now — and 
that thrice-confounded rifle! The copy-book says "The 
good soldier loves his gun and takes good care of it." 
That's me — Hove my Vickers, but oh, you rifle! However, 
when we're out in a shell crater some day and some bloom- 
ing "Jerry's" whizbang ties the barrel of my machine 
gun into a few knots, I suppose I'll be glad enough of the 
other gun's friendly companionship! Several days ago 
my squad had the none-too-pleasant job of keeping the 
mess-hall in order for the day. I certainly was proud of 
my fellows! They not only worked like troopers all day, 
but when at the close of the evening's clean-up they were 
handed a huge mess of potatoes to peel, they never batted 
an eye! It's great to see the bunch getting together and 
sticking by each other — getting squad spirit. Not a man 
in the squad has been absent or late at a formation since 
we've been in the camp — and four out of the seven had 
just recently completed "hard labor" terms for "absence 
without leave"! But now they're working like Trojans, 
and shave, shine their shoes and keep their unruly locks 
tamed just so that the squad will look "up to snuff" at 
formations. They proved themselves yesterday after- 
noon, when for the first time we had real gas-mask work. 
We drilled for over a half-hour with our masks on! We 
couldn't see, breathe or hear a great deal at the end of the 
half hour, and so the drill was a more or less haphazard 
affair. But when we took off our masks and looked around, 
we found that our squad was the only one that hadn't 
gotten mixed up! They're drilling on the gun to beat the 
band, too! In fact, I think that pretty soon we'll have the 
best squad of them all. I sure hope so. 

27 



Today has been a very peaceful Sunday for me. I 
went to church this morning with Ford, Clubley and a 
few others. Then Asbury and I found another delicious 
dinner, although we had to wait till 'most three o'clock 
for it. Since then I've been spending most of the time 
scrivening my doings when according to all the laws and 
the prophets I should be studying the parts and operation 
of the Vickers .303 Water-cooled Automatic Machine 
Gun! 

Monday, May 18th 

All day we toiled on the Vickers — drill, mechanism, 
stoppages, parts, belt-filling— and the further we go into 
it, the greater becomes my respect for these British boys 
who are acting as our instructors. They know the gun 
like a book — in fact, better than a book — and yet they're 
obviously not expert mechanics drawn from the highly 
trained parts of civil life. No, they're just ordinary 
"Tommies" — corporals and lance-corporals for the most 
part — but they've learned the gun in action on the firing 
line and they know it. Almost all of them wear one, two 
or three wound-stripes on their sleeves, but they all look 
good for more action — which fact is encouraging, to say 
the least! 

In the afternoon it got muddy, so we had our lecture 
indoors — which was thoughtful of our officers, now that 
we have only one suit of clothes to our names! 

Tuesday, May llfih 

This morning at mess, Asbury came over and whispered 
mysteriously to me — "I've found a chocolate-mine." 
That was an event, because around this neck of the woods 
chocolate is almost an unknown luxury — chiefly because 
when a supply comes into the canteens, there's a wild 
riot, and when the smoke clears away, and the non-football 
playing members of the company get up to the counter, 
the chocolate is sold out. 

So after retreat, Asbury and I (of course, I call him 
"Raspberry") trotted down to a neighboring village, and 
got to the "chocolate-mine" — which happened this time 
to be a British Canteen — before the crowd. As a result, 

28 



we now have "du Chocolat" — and all the way home we 
were gloating over the late-comers whose buttons would 
probably be torn off in the rush. I remember very plainly 
the button I lost in a canteen rush in England. But this 
time 1 got my delicacies in peace. So much for having 
the "inside dope"! That and rumors are the chief sources 
of interest in the army. "Washroom rumors" will supply 
you in five minutes with enough misinformation to keep 
the New York Journal filled for weeks! 

Today we started on a new era in our culinary depart- 
ment. Our field kitchens are erected, and the cooks 
no longer have to depend on the insufficient camp kitchen. 
The result is that once more the boys are praising the 
"chow." The only other event of interest was an exhibi- 
tion machine gun drill given by our instructors. They 
call it "T. O. E. T."— Test of Elementary Training— and 
we'll probably get it next week. All that did for us was 
to show us how much we had to learn ! 

Wednesday, May 15th 

Today has been a big day indeed! And the day didn't 
really begin until "quittin' time." During the day we 
went through our regular routine of drills, and had our 
first touch of real summer warmth. As we lined up for 
our mess at about five o'clock, Sergt. McKeown passed 
me and whispered, "You'll probably be made a corporal 
tonight or tomorrow." I signified my enthusiastic thanks 
and on the strength of that went in and ate a hearty sup- 
per of bread and butter, jam, cheese and coffee — plenty 
of all of 'em! Then, as I was standing in line once more, 
this time to wash my mess-kit (you spend two thirds of 
your time in the army standing in fine for some reason or 
other), he passed again and whispered, "That order just 
went through, Corporal." That was excitement enough 
for one day — but wait! After that we learned that the 
company was to be blessed with a bath, and in order that 
no priceless daylight hours would be wasted, the company 
was to march to the village with gas-masks on, for march- 
ing practice, to get accustomed to the masks. So as your 
"Corp. Pete" lined up with the company, with his soap, 
towel, clean "undies" and socks under his arm, his gas- 

29 



mask slung over his shoulder, up steps our prince of a 
"top-kick" once more. "Drop out, Corporal," quoth he 
— just-like-that — "Corporal." "Yessir," — sez I, and I 
drops out, I does, resigned to, if not ecstatic at, the pros- 
pect of remaining dirty for yet another day. When my 
boss returned, he advised me that I was to be one of the 
Corporals of the Guard! And me a two-hours'-old Corp. 
without so much as a chevron on me! That was bad 
enough, but attendez un moment! When my trick came — 
nine till one — things began happening. About ten o'clock 
or so the searchlights began prowling around in the almost 
cloudless sky, making strange brilliances where they 
struck bits of cloud, and fading off into nothing as they 
neared the waxing moon. Soon the first "Boom" of the 
anti-aircraft guns sounded, far off, and almost at the 
same instant my guards blew their three-whistle air-raid 
signal. Then I was busy! Seeing that all lights went out 
in a jiffy, calling the officer of the day, and scouting around 
to instruct my sentries. Then for a while I watched the 
raid in peace (!). The affair wasn't particularly near us, 
and there was practically no danger to the camp, because 
the only things the "Jerries" are after are railways, cross- 
roads, bases, villages and the like — none of which we have 
to offer. However, several times "Jerry" got near enough 
so that we could hear the distinctive whiz of his motor, so 
different from the sound of the British planes. And the 
searchlights! They seemed to be everywhere, crossing 
and criss-crossing each other in the sky, star-shells rising, 
shrapnel bursting here and there in the distance, and the 
intermittent booming of the anti-aircraft guns. Once or 
twice we could feel a slight tremor of the ground as a Hun 
bomb struck the earth somewhere within a few miles. 
Well, there I was, watching the finest part of the show, 
when suddenly I was accosted by a corporal who had a 
prisoner for me. Prisoners are a very rare affair indeed 
here, and in fact, the "bril" was locked and there wasn't 
any key! So off again trots Corp. "Randy" to find the 
officer of the day, and he and I together to find the British 
commanding officer of our little camp, to get the key. 
Finally we got the prisoner to bed, the lights became 

30 



dimmed, the firing ceased, "Jerry" went his way and left 
"Randy" alone with his thoughts. And they were pleas- 
ant thoughts, too — thoughts of how much it's going to 
mean to all of us to have been out here, to have seen what 
we've seen and done what we've done — the knowledge of 
the main thing that it's going to give us — seeing men live, 
away from the influences that have had their share in build- 
ing up our civilization — I mean woman, home, the family, 
constructive effort, the thing called society — all that. 
Those things no longer act on men out here, as they do at 
home, to prop them up, strengthen weak resolves and 
keep them tamed. Out here a man is nothing more than 
what he brings with him inside himself — and that's why 
the study is so interesting. Some men are found to be all 
veneer — others — lots of them — find their very best, 
strongest selves — an ego that in many cases even they 
themselves have never known before — underneath the 
shell that has covered them all their lives. 

Incidentally, there isn't a man who has a home to goto 
when it's all over, who won't go there after the war with a 
new appreciation of what it is, and of what it means to him. 

Thursday, May 16th 

As I write this, I'm sitting out in front of the guard 
house, on a nice, comfy bench, with a big table in front 
of me, and a broad stretch of beautiful country before me. 
In both directions the road stretches away, guarded on 
each side by tall trees. I feel for all the world like a gen- 
eral in front of his headquarters, my only difficulty being 
the lack of assistants! A general would surely have a 
few "stenogs," order lies, telegraphers and sich, while I — 
poor little I — have but a Waterman. Still, I don't think 
I'd care to be a general, even for the privilege of sitting 
in the sunlight of old France — no, not even if I bad two 
suits of clothes and an orderly to shine my boots! 

Well, after much fuss and to-do about getting away, 
eight would-be-clean soldiers kited off down the road to 
the village for a bath. I never thought that a bath was a 
luxury until I went without one — but now, — gosh! With- 
out a moment's hesitation we trot three miles 'cross-coun- 
try, miss supper at camp, carry our clean clothes — all for 

31 



the privilege of standing under a home-made shower that 
trickles first boiling, then hot, then tepid, and at last icy 
water in a two-inch stream down your back, as the water 
in the little tank on the roof gets lower and lower. But 
oh, what a joy that bath was! While we waited, Randy 
slipped off to the farm where dwells "Madame Pommes-de- 
Terre." Sometimes she's "Madame Seulement-des-oeufs-ce- 
soir," but this time she had everything — eggs, potatoes, 
bread, coffee, cream, sugar — que voulez vous? So "Randy" 
ordered dinner for eight, and after our bath we had a feast. 
Almost early Roman luxury, eh, what? 

Then we walked home — and no sooner had we gotten 
into the barracks than our platoon sergeant hurled a wet 
sponge in on our ebullient joy — the news that we were all 
to be ready at 6:45 A. M. the next day, with full packs, 
helmets and gas-masks — rifles, too! ready to hike cross- 
country to the gas-school for a dose of chlorine gas. We 
didn't mind the gas — but to wake, dress, stand reveille, 
shave, wash, roll a pack, make up a bunk (even a bunk 
that is merely floor plus blanket!), stand inline for break- 
fast, eat, stand in line to wash mess-kit, then wash it, get 
that eighty pounds of junk safely and comfortably on 
your back and rush out to formation between 5 :50 and 
6:45 is some job! And about forty out of the company 
failed — and had kitchen police jobs awarded to them. / 
was out in time — but I confess, I licked my mess-kit! 

Friday, May 17th 

Oh, by the way, among other things, in that India- 
rubber fifty-five minutes, I got Napoli to sew on my chev- 
rons in addition to all the other jobs enumerated above! 
Then we hiked — and by the time we got to the gas-house 
we were the most wilted company you ever saw. Drip- 
ping with perspiration — our unfamiliar guns slung in 
every sort of way as their owners sought an elusive moment 
of comfort — limestone dust on shoes and leggins — we were 
a fine-looking bunch of world-beaters! We went into the 
gas-house in bunches of thirty, and stood around with 
our masks on while the instructor opened a tank and 
allowed some vapor to escape. I didn't smell a thing! 
Then we went outside, and there, when the masks were 

32 



ordered off, we could plainly smell the remnants of the 
gas in our helmets and on our clothes — but the old mask 
sure did keep it out! 

The captain was kind enough to let us march home 
without wearing our coats, so we didn't quite suffocate! 
But it was some hike, nevertheless. In the afternoon we 
had two machine gun classes — the first a lecture on camou- 
flage! Four guns were hidden by our instructors on a hill- 
side a few hundred yards away — and we couldn't spot a 
single one of them! So much for protective coloration 
and the art of keeping still. Then we had our Test of 
Elementary Training — gun drill against time — and I'm 
very glad to say that practically my whole squad, Corp. 
"Pete" included, were promoted to "A" Class and will 
start advanced drill Monday. At four o'clock, to our 
intense surprise, they told us we'd have no more work. 
Nowadays a free hour is a treat indeed for us, even when 
we spend it, as did most of the boys this time, in scrubbing 
clothes, shaving, or cleaning guns! — so you may be sure 
we grinned. After mess I had my hair cut — and I did 
wish for a camera! You'd have seen "Randy" with his 
coat off and collar turned in, a khaki handkerchief of 
uncertain history around his neck — perched on a barber's 
chair, which consisted of eight bricks piled on top of each 
other. Kneeling behind me was good old Conboy, of the 
Fighting Third Squad — the finest fellow of the lot, who 
before the war was a conductor on a Buffalo-Angola 
trolley car — his scissors and razor and a canteen of cold 
water were the sum total of his accoutrements, but he 
gave me a bully fine hair-cut just the same! 

Saturday, May 18th 

O, Mr. Anathema! How I needed your assistance this 
morning! With your aid I could probably have expressed 
myself fully when the buglers of B Co. woke the whole 
camp an hour early this morning — at the unearthly hour 
of 4:50 A. M.! They had to start off early on a hike or 
something — and it never occurred to them that in a pocket 
edition of a "camp" like ours, a bugle blast at daybreak 
was no respecter of persons — that it would crash in alike 
on the sleeping ears of the just and the unjust, too — the 

33 



just being ourselves and the unjust the "B" Co. outfit, 
who thereby did us out of an hour's slumber. We went 
this morning to a neighboring bit of practice trench sys- 
tem, where we practiced mounting our machine guns on 
rough ground. That's lots of fun. We take a gun team 
out to some point and send the rest of the section a num- 
ber of yards away. Then the gun team has to get behind 
cover, drag up and erect the gun, and get it trained on the 
others fellows without being seen. 

Then in the afternoon we had more drill on the camp 
parade ground, after which Conboy and I went to town 
to arrange for our squad dinner, a little affair in honor of 
my promotion. I thought that was the least I could do 
for them after they'd stood by me so well when I was only 
an acting corp. "Con" and I had success beyond our 
dreams. Mademoiselle — my usual egg-cooking friend — 
was dee-lighted, and all would be ready at sept heures et 
demie — and at the appointed hour the squad was there 
too, fortified, it's true, by the camp's evening meal, but 
ready, as all American soldiers seem to be, for another one. 

As we entered the red-tiled room adjoining the spotless 
kitchen, I saw that Mademoiselle had done even better 
than her promise. A tablecloth — two plates each — and 
even a big bunch of lilacs on the table! For dinner we 
had four fried eggs apiece, loads of French fried potatoes, 
sardines, bread (which we took with us), English crackers, 
apple jelly, chocolate, and du via blanc. It was a very 
jolly affair, and we sang songs and raised quiet Cain to 
our hearts' content. At 9:10 we had to start back for 
camp. This we did marching in regular squad formation, 
except that we put "Hop" Ashley out in front to act as 
drum-major. Ashley, before he was a soldier, was captain 
of the bell boys in the Iroquois Hotel ! His antics kept us 
in such convulsions that we could hardly sing! Of course, 
before we could get to sleep "Jerry" had to come over, 
drop a few bombs in the vicinity and be duly shot at him- 
self. I'll be glad when this moon wanes, although we're 
all getting used to them now. In fact, last night I went to 
sleep right in the middle of the blamed affair, with the 
anti-aircraft guns peppering the sky and the searchlights 
sweeping all over the place! 

34 



Sunday, May 19th 

I'm writing this in a perfectly idyllic meadow of green 
grass, with millions of buttercups and daisies sprinkled 
all about me. A dozen cows are grazing around me, and 
over there on the path a British officer is tickling one old 
Bossy with his swagger stick. I'm propped up against a 
huge old tree — Asbury is asleep beside me — a little spider 
is crawling over the sheet as I write — but would I inter- 
rupt him? Nay — the blood of the fighting Clan Campbell 
rebels at such a deed! Off in the distance a British bugle 
is playing an unfamiliar call. In two directions I can hear 
church-bells calling the faithful to mass — and in one more 
direction I can hear a more sinister sound — the booming 
of the cannon at the front. Here comes a group of British 
horsemen, followed by two American and one French offi- 
cer, all mounted. Behind them comes a lumbering old 
cart, and on it Monsieur and Madame in their Sunday 
best — and two little boys decked out in frills and laces 
that are almost ludicrous against the workaday back- 
ground of the cart. Yet it's typical of France today — 
France sorely hurt, of course, but France wearing a smile 
and a jaunty bit of lace on her gown — France, where 
Madame of the Grande Maison takes in washing these 
days, perhaps, but doesn't neglect to shine the brasses 
and keep fresh the geraniums in the curtained window. 
And do you know, I think it's just that sort of thing that 
has sustained her through all her troubles? 

Asbury is stirring — I'll have to feed him a piece of sandy 
French chocolate and put him to sleep again. There goes 
the Sanctus bell at the old church — and with it, almost 
at the same instant come the recurring sound of the British 
bugle, the whiz of a plane overhead, the deeper boom of 
heavy guns, the mooing of a cow, and once more, the 
peaceful, even snore of my friend Asbury. Isn't it a 
funny, mixed-up world I'm living in? But it's doing things 
for me that I never could have done for myself. 

Monday, May 20th 

Here we are, off on one more week of our student life — 
getting each day more confident of our progress, and surer 

35 



of our ultimate success with the old Vickers. I'm also be- 
coming very much more hopeful that the Second Platoon 
will prove itself the star outfit of the company. We've 
been running without a platoon commander since Lieut. 
Ethridge was transferred to other duty. But recently a 
new officer, Lieut. Reardon, has been attached to the 
platoon, we hope permanently. He's a youDg fellow, and 
I believe has earned his commission on this side of the 
water. And believe me, he earned it! He's got that rare 
thing, magnetism — and because he knows exactly what 
he's doing, the fellows respect him. I hope we keep him! 
Thank goodness, we started again today with an hour 
of physical exercise! After retreat, "Raz" and ] wandered 
down to the village and back, and talked about everything 
under the sun — and once more, on our return, we were 
greeted with the news of a big day to come. Packs, rifles, 
helmets, gas-masks, helmets, machine guns and helmets — 
off on a hike to the range. 

Monday, May 20th. Letter to P&L 

Your letter came in a day or so ago, in company with a 
Peanelogram, a letter from Juenker, and nine other letters 
from mother and friends. Gosh! That windfall was just 
like a breath of the good old U. S. A. 

From all we can hear in here now, the Third Loan went 
across with a bang. I'd certainly like to have been in on 
that proposition, although after all the space we had at 
our disposal last time, anything less would ha\e been 
pretty hard to stand. By the way, one of our fellows got 
a newspaper from some small town, that had the old 
"Kaiser Captures New York" ad in it, advertising the 
Third Loan. But in this case it was on the very front page 
of the paper! 

Don't for goodness' sake get the idea that I'm not inter- 
ested in the things that go on at the office. There's nothing 
that interests me quite as much as P&L — and it's pretty 
hard to lose an interest as vital as that — even when you're 
busy on a machine gun twelve hours a day, with nothing 
but eating-time taken out. 

As for colds — I've certainly been lucky. I haven't had 
a cold since I left Camp Upton — and heaven knows I'd 

36 



get one if there were any germs waiting around trying to 
get me! Camp life here is just one long day's work after 
another. We start at 5:50 A. M. and don't quit till 6:20 
P. M. — and all that time we spend studying the Vickers 
gun. We have one hour a. day on gas-mask duty, learning 
how to use them under various conditions. All the rest 
of our time we spend on the gun, studying mechanics, 
drill, stoppages, stripping the gun, cleaning it — everything 
conceivable. We're working under British "non-coms," 
all of whom have seen service at the front, and believe me, 
they know that gun ! It's going to be a mighty short time 
now before we, too, will know it — and then we'll go after 
the old Hun. I think he's expecting us, because the old 
boy comes around every clear night in his bloomin' flying 
machine and throws bombs around the neighborhood. 

I'm going to close this letter now because "Lights out" 
time has come. I haven't given good measure, I know, for 
the fine long one you sent me. But our time is so very 
limited that I'm just about kept busy writing my "diary- 
letter." And whenever you get a chance, drop me a line — 
tell me all about the little things, too! 

And did I tell you they made me a corporal the other day? 

P. S — Where's The Propeller? 

Tuesday, May 21st 

Well! This has been a real day! It started this morning 
with the rolling of our packs, and the usual nice job we 
poor corporals get, of assigning the heavy gun and tripod 
to members of the squad to carry, without getting any- 
body peeved! Then came the hike — only a short one, 
fortunately, to a beautiful spot along the main road, 
where the road itself went through lowlands, with broad, 
grassy banks on each side. On one of these we camped, 
while our instructors taught us the fine points of the 
Vickers. Then came lunch — and quite a novelty it was, 
served for the first time since we've been over here from a 
field kitchen on a wagon drawn up at the side of the 
road. Oh, how good that pork and beans, that hard tack 
and coffee all tasted, out there in the sunlight! 

Then we went out on the range, to fire the gun the first 
time. O-o-oh ! my ears are ringing yet, and when I whistle, 

37 



the sound doesn't sound like whistling at all! But the 
work was fascinating, and right in the middle of the 
afternoon the biggest event of all took place — we had a 
visit from the Commanding General of all the British 
Armies — General Sir Douglas Haig. He came with his 
staff, in six big automobiles — they drove right by us to 
the far end of the range. The General passed within four 
feet of me, and I had a very good look at him. He's a 
very distinguished looking man, and the burden of war, 
while it shows plainly on his face, has taken nothing from 
the power and poise that you can always see in his pic- 
tures. And you can pass this around to your Buffalo 
friends — the General rode in a Pierce-Arrow ! 

Serg. McKeown overheard part of the General's con- 
versation with Sir Douglas. The General inquired 
what branch of the service Capt. Gillam was in before, 
"civilian," replied the captain, at which the General 
showed much surprise. "But where did you get that poise — 
that chest — that commanding voice?" demanded Sir 
Douglas. The captain modestly didn't know. I think 
General Haig will remember Capt. Gillam — and I know 
blamed well we'll remember him — and his snappy-looking 
staff, attired in their faultless red-trimmed khaki uniforms. 

After our practice was over, we had evening mess — 
coffee, bread, jam and lots of very good cheese — "seconds," 
too, for those who wanted them. I don't know how it is 
that we get so much more to eat on the road than we do 
in camp! 

Then we very wisely came home and went to bed. 

Wednesday, May 22nd 

This morning at 7:30, we started off on a tactical trip. 
Our officers were given a map, and told to go to 27 E 48G, 
or something like that — and to get their men there at 
nine o'clock and in as good condition as possible. We got 
there in very good time, too, although the road led straight 
upward all the way. When we finally reached our des- 
tination, we found a most beautiful spot — a rolling glade, 
covered with close-cropped grass (cropped by sheep, not 
machinery!), and guarded on all four sides by trees. The 
whole forms a sort of plateau, from which the view is 

38 



marvelous — hills, woods, farms and villages as far as the 
eye can reach. And there, nestling down in a pit, was the 
emplacement of one of the big searchlights we see sweeping 
the sky when "Jerry" comes calling o' nights. 

We spent the day in various sorts of machine gun work 
— "rough-ground drill" (mounting the gun on uneven 
surfaces) — and what is most fun of all, "use of ground 
and cover." In this little pastime, three men go off with 
the gun and tripod, while the rest turn their backs. Then 
the three drop down behind some tiny, hardly noticeable 
rise in the ground, and the remaining fellows are ordered 
to turn round and watch. The three then crawl along the 
ground, mount the gun on the tripod, and get a "bead" 
on the watching group — and the object of the game is to 
do all this without being seen! It's surprising to a layman 
how completely three men and a gun can be hidden behind 
a little rise in the ground a couple of hundred yards away — 
a rise so slight that when you're on the spot where the 
gun is, you think "Why, this is idiotic — they must be able 
to see us!" Well, they can't if you stay low enough, but 
you've got to B&, all right! 

Again today we had two meals out in the open, and it 
was certainly great! The grass is soft and beautiful there, 
and there's plenty of shade — in short, it's really too pleas- 
ant to be strictly military. 

But oh, what a hot walk home! When we got there we 
were fagged out and drenched with perspiration. I shed 
my clothes and indulged in a cold-water "splash-bath," 
after which I felt lots better. Then "Raz" and I went to 
the village and claimed our clean clothes, and being pretty 
tired, returned at once and hied us to our downy couches 
{camouflage conversation for "pine-plank flops"). 

Thursday, May 23rd 

Once again today we hiked off to our greensward pla- 
teau — but today, instead of sweltering heat, we had an 
almost too invigorating breeze. We had an hour of quite 
novel physical exercise, followed by the day's machine 
gun work. Then followed an athletic meet between the 
three platoons, the winning team being rewarded by the 
promise of getting relieved of duty in the "butts" at the 

39 



range tomorrow. They need sixty D Co. men in the 
pits to mark up the targets as the men of A, B, and C Cos. 
have their practice. Well of course, as usual, the First 
Platoon won — they have all the athletes, but not brains 
like the Second Platoon! So tomorrow the Second and 
Third go out to do the battalion's dirty work! When we 
got home tonight, Lieut. Reardon remarked that he had 
never seen a company march better. That made me feel 
pretty good, I can tell you — but then — then the mail was 
passed out, and I got 26 letters! That made me feel like 
a young colt, and I sat up reading 'em all, long after the 
rest of the hut was snoring. Running strictly in line with 
my old-time form, I use up more candles than all the rest 
of the hut put together! I got your letters up to May 4th, 
with none lacking. I'll answer them all in a "questions- 
and-answers" letter today or tomorrow. I also heard 
from The Propeller, the Peanelogram and one or two 
others. It was great, I tell you! I went to bed at about 
7:45, and read by candle-light till about ten, and just 
barely finished skimming through them. They made me 
sleep like a top — oh, no, I don't mean that at all — it 
sounds as if I was accusing them of being soporifics! No, 
but they gave me such a satisfied feeling that sleep was a 
cinch. 

Friday, May 24th 

I've been writing up the last day or so of my "diary-let- 
ter" during the last hour and a half. It's now 11 :20, and I 
think I'll be able to complete the story of this half day 
before lunch. It's a sad story, though! We started off 
this morning — the Second and Third Platoons, with small 
packs, gas-masks, helmets and raincoats on, to go to our 
job on the range. It was very threatening when we left, 
and indulged in a mud-encouraging downpour once or 
twice on the road. However, we continued, and entered 
the "butts." Gosh, I never dreamed that the "behind- 
the-scenes" of a rifle range was such a muchness. Regular 
trenches, with corrugated iron roofs, lookout posts, storage 
dugouts for targets, poles with red flags on 'em, tie frames 
for the targets — all sorts of contraptions — and all looking 
very muddy, sinister and quite satisfactorily military in 

40 



the rain. Capt. Gillam put me in charge of the telephone, 
which, after some search, I found — a field phone in a 
leather bag, kept in the hut of the range-warden — and 
attached it to its proper plug. But I had no chance to 
prove my prowess, because we got the order "No prac- 
tice — start back!" Then we started to undo all the work 
which we had done — took down targets, phone, flags and 
all that — and at the same time old Jupiter Pluvius decided 
that he'd been shirking a bit, so he started to pour rain 
on us in buckets! When we got home, we were drenched! 
So now here I am, in our hut, with the rain pouring out- 
side, my slicker hung up, dripping, my socks, shoes and 
underclothes — and my only pants hung up — also dripping, 
while I, in a dry suit of underclothes and my 0. D. shirt, 
am lying in my blankets on the floor, writing to you. A 
Vickers machine gun spare parts box is my table — a 
candle on a jam-tin is my light — and there you are! 

Sunday, May 26ih 

Today is the anniversary — the three-months' anniver- 
sary — of the day we left Buffalo for the wilds of Long 
Island — and by way of celebration, we're starting out on 
the hardest job we've tackled since we changed our title 
from "Mr." to "Pte." We started out at six-thirty this 
morning on the first lap of a three-day military manoeuvre. 
The "plan of campaign" has been handed to the officers, 
and the necessary maps of the supposititious campaign as 
well. Using these maps, the officers (this time mounted) 
led the company 'cross-country to a certain large town, 
which we'll call Avril, because that isn't its name. The 
"book of the play" — that is, the typewritten sheets giving 
the supposed situation — demanded that the 306th Ma- 
chine Gun Battalion and one other machine gun unit take 
over a series of support lines behind the "first-line 
trenches." These trenches are to be held by the infantry 
regiments of our division. (I forgot to mention that this 
is a divisional manoeuvre, and that our battalion merely 
plays its own small part in carrying out the plan.) 

The plan demanded that we arrive at a certain point 
at a specified time, and so the company was lined up in 
company front at 7 :30. But as luck would have it, other 

41 



companies were not so prompt, so the movement didn't 
begin until nine. The fellows carried full packs — about 
eighty pounds, with an overcoat roll on top of that — gas- 
masks, helmets and rifles — some load! Unfortunately, the 
order demanding our presence at the appointed place and 
hour took no account of delays in starting, the result was 
the most exhausting hike I've ever been through. We 
had a short rest after the first three quarters of an hour, 
but for the next two hours and ten minutes, nothing but 
tramp-tramp-tramp over that sun-baked, dusty high- 
way, faces streaming with perspiration under those delight- 
ful tin hats. We came to the outskirts of the large town I 
mentioned; passed a cool-looking canal and a Red Cross 
receiving station; tired fellows thought, "Well, surely we'll 
stop here." But no; on we tramped, through the streets of 
the town which we're calling Avril. It's a British supply 
base, and a very busy one, two canal boats unloading sup- 
plies, long trains of motor lorries ready to start off to the 
front line, cannon, some new and bright, just on its way 
out to the trenches, others old, mud-stained and worn, 
ready to go back to a rejuvenating base. The village itself 
is picturesque, with the canal running through it, the 
quaint old buildings — many of them boarded up as a pro- 
tection against bombs — the curious contrast of huge lum- 
bering lorries and jaunty little donkey carts, and over all, 
the dark mass of the cathedral towering — a majestic pile 
it is, too, though probably unknown to the connoisseur of 
cathedral architecture. 

But did we rest? Nay, and again no — on we tramped, 
through the streets, past the busy section, beyond the one 
or two factories, beyond the dregs of the town and out into 
the country again. Here we came to the foot of a long, 
long hill — a hill that seemed endless to our fagged-out 
energies. Finally, of course, on our nerve, we reached the 
top, and were given the blessed "fall out" as we came to 
the fringe of the Bois d' Avril. We threw our burdens 
aside, and ourselves on top of them. We watched our 
transport as it lumbered dustily past us to the spot as- 
signed us — limbers full of ammunition, machine guns, tri- 
pods, material of every sort and kind, following them came 

42 



our best friend, the field kitchen, stovepipe emitting a most 
promising blue smoke that told of coming "chow." Before 
long the mess-line formed, and the hungry boys were busy 
once more taking care of the inner man. We lolled around 
there on the edge of the wood until about three-thirty, 
while the officers scouted around in search of our head- 
quarters, which was nothing to them but a spot on the 
map labeled L15C7090. At last they called us into ranks 
again, and marched us off to our headquarters, which we 
finally reached by a rather circuitous route, of roads, trails 
and finally a woodland path, and this led down a sheer hill- 
side to a valley below. And there we found the place that 
had been assigned to us — a large farmhouse with still 
larger barns beside it. 

With much unction we were introduced to our quarters 
—a luxurious spot it was, too — the hay-loft of a large barn, 
three feet deep in clean, luxurious straw. Of course, there 
were mice, but they were incidental. However, no such 
luck as a night's sleep was to be our portion. In came 
Sergt. "Mac." "Third Squad Second Platoon—out- 
side." Out went Corporal "Pete" with his "Snappy 
Third." "Report to Lieut. Harris at once" was our order. 
Lieut. Harris mounted his horse and led us right back up 
the hill to the main road, where we found our field kit- 
chen with the brake out of commission. Our job was to 
act as a living brake and keep the old rig from crashing 
headlong down the hill and spilling the company's dinner 
all over the map. Our efforts succeeded, thanks to the 
happy thought of "Hig" Higgins, who tied a rope around 
one wheel and made a "drag" of it. So thanks to the 
Third Squad, the company dined. But did we rest then? 
Not we! "All-1-1 gun teams out to the Umbers to claim 
their guns!" So out we trotted, and after some large dig- 
ging around, we finally got all our paraphernalia in one 
spot. Off we started then, up the steep side of the hill 
beyond which the Germans were supposed to be. By 
this time it was quite dark, and the wood was very thick — 
intertwined, too, with countless paths that seemed to lead 
nowhere. Finally, however, we made our way through to 
the edge of the wood, where we found a road outHning the 

43 



brow of the hill. Here on the fringe of the wood, eight gun 
positions had been selected by the officers, and there we 
mounted our guns. My gun was No. 2, and back in the 
woods a few yards behind it, we pitched our little "pup- 
tent." Our outfit looked something like this: 




Here you can see our gun, pointing over the hill, with 
one of my trusty men on watch behind it. Over the brow 
of the hill, twenty-six hundred yards away, is the cross- 
roads at (we'll call it Bon Air), where the Germans must 
pass to bring up supplies to their first line. The task 
allotted to our eight guns was to be ready at a signal to 
pour twelve thousand rounds of shot into the immediate 
vicinity of that cross-roads — "harrassing fire," they call it. 
To carry out this plan, all the guns were trained on the 
proper spot, by means of instruments in the hands of offi- 
cers, and a guard was placed at each gun to watch for the 
"S. O. S." (signal to fire) — a rocket of three stars, red over 
green over yellow. The remainder of the gun teams slept 
the sleep of the just — -that is, after they had pitched their 
tents, packed the legs of the gun tripod, unrolled their 
packs, and done sundry other little camp chores. 

All was quiet until three-fourteen. It was timed to the 
instant — Conboy was my guard at the time the signal 
went up, and he had my trusty wrist- watch on his arm. 
"S. O. S. — all out!" he called, meanwhile firing with all 
his might — 400 shots a minute for the first two minutes, 
and 250 shots a minute for the next three minutes, all 
according to instructions. The only trouble was, the guns 
(also according to instructions) were silent, because they 
weren't loaded! However, we all scrambled out of our 
blankets, and out to the gun. The "S. 0. S." rockets were 
still illuminating the sky when we got to our posts — and 
soon the officers were around to see what we had done. 

44 



By this time it was nearly three-thirty, and you know, the 
hour from three-thirty to four-thirty is "stand-to," the 
hour when most attacks start, and the time at which all 
soldiers are expected to be armed, awake and at their 
posts. When "stand-to " was over, it was my turn to go on 
watch, so once more "Pete" didn't get any sleep. Then 
he had to trot down the hill with half his squad to get their 
breakfast — then back again to relieve the remaining half. 
About eleven o'clock the order came from headquarters, 
"Strike tents, roll packs and take cover!" We promptly 
struck, rolled and took — also camouflaged the gun with 
branches, carried all the spare parts and boxes back to the 
bushes, hid our packs and selves. And so effective was our 
concealment that when the Third Platoon came up to 
relieve us, they almost stepped on me! 

At last we were relieved from gun duty — but no sooner 
had we clambered down and had our noon mess than the 
call came "Signal-men and non-commissioned officers front 
and center!" Off trips "Pete" once more, this time to lis- 
ten to a lecture on map-reading. That was no sooner over, 
than "Gib" Elliot, Francis and I started off up the hillside 
with "Gib's" range-finder — a marvelous instrument, hav- 
ing packed within its small dimensions more dollars-and- 
cents value than a five-passenger flivver, and from there 
we were dragged up once more to the hill, to relieve the 
Third Platoon while they dined. We followed them to the 
mess-line as quickly as we could, and then retired, as we 
thought, to bed. But the air was thick with rumors of 
more manoeuvres, and the poor old "top-kick" was being 
plastered with questions he couldn't answer. Finally the 
"dope" leaked out, and we were advised that the gun team 
would go up to the hillside posts, all except three of them, 
and retreat with the guns, bringing them back to camp. 
Our team was one of those assigned to the last three guns, 
which were not to be dismounted until twelve o'clock — so 
we decided that at last we'd be able to taste the delights of 
that marvelous straw bed. But oh, what a taste it was! 
Every second minute there would be a howl: "Cor-poral 
Bee-hn! Corporal Beehn" or "All Signallers out-side!" 
followed by a scuffling in the straw and many muffled 

45 



imprecations as some sleeping hero received the impact of 
a hob-nailed boot on a sensitive ear or ankle. Then some 
out -o '-luck private would come lumbering through the 
pitchy darkness looking for a missing pack or rifle. The 
room was in a constant hubbub, so that none but the 
hardiest and most carefree could sleep. Then at last came 
my call — "Cor-poral Camp-bell!" Yes, I was there — what 
did they want? I wasn't due to go up and bring down our 
gun for a full half hour. "Change of orders — your squad 
is to go up with belts and rifles to act as a picket line, pro- 
tecting the retreat of those three guns against the advanc- 
ing Germans." Well, that wasn't so bad — no heavy guns 
to carry down the hill — but at that, picket duty on a lonely 
hillside didn't offer endless opportunities for a joyseeker. 
Lieut. Harris took us up through the woods, and then 
called me aside, drew out a mysterious map, and by means 
of a flashlight showed me our post. "Take your men and 
post them around the three sides of this wood," he said. 
"You are protecting the retreat of these three guns. The 
Germans are advancing up the far side of that hill." And 
away went the lieutenant, leaving me to post my men 
around that dark, forbidding wood. From our posts we 
could see the flash of the artillery fifteen miles or so away, 
on the real front. That lent realism to our little job — but 
that wasn't all. Along came a Hun plane — we could hear 
the hum of his motor plainly — and then a young bedlam 
broke loose. The searchlights flashed in the sky, the anti- 
aircraft guns started booming — the shells whistled over our 
heads and burst over the wood behind us. All of a sudden 
the sky was brilliant with star-shells, the largest search- 
light beam dropped very low, a deafening roar of shots 
resounded, and a flaming mass dropped down over the 
hill, out of sight. They got him! A little later another 
battery of guns, evidently after a more distant fleet of 
planes, started flashing shrapnel shells, that burst in the 
sky in front of us, for all the world like a carnal flock of 
itinerant stars, each opening a sleepy eye for an instant, 
and then retiring into the blackness again. After a while, 
Lieut. Harris came to visit our posts, and was duly and 
properly challenged by all my sentries — for which "Uncle 

46 



Pete" got a word of commendation. I was instructed to 
collect my men at one A. M., and bring them back to 
camp, through that delicious forest — far from trackless, 
but buried in a superfluity of trails that all looked alike. 
Luckily, however, we didn't get lost, and arrived in camp 
on schedule — only to find that all our pals were ready, 
with packs rolled, to start off on the homeward march, at 
2. A. M.! Oh, Morpheus, what we did to you in those 
three days ! One hour and twenty minutes' total slumber ! 
The idea was that according to the plan, the bridge over 
which we had crossed was to have been blown up by Ger- 
man planes at one that morning. Of course, that was 
simply for the purpose of making our officers find another 
way home — which they did. We tramped through Avril 
by the light of an almost-full moon, that cast deep blue 
shadows down the side-streets and bathed the fagades in 
silent blue brilliance. There was an uncanny something 
about that night that I'll remember a long time. Sud- 
denly the boys started whistling "Fair Harvard" — and 
the mystery vanished, leaving us once more a bunch of 
weary American boys, trying to make the best of a bad 
bargain. 

We hit camp at about five A. M., and threw ourselves 
into our blankets and onto the floor. We slept like dead 
men — -were roused at noon for dinner, and again at six 
for supper. Then we began to feel almost ourselves again, 
and by seven, Ford, "Gib" Elliot and I had "pep" enough 
to go down to the village for eggs, chips and the little frills 
that go with it — potato, bread, milk and jolly French 
persiflage. Then back to bed, and to my great surprise, 
to a full eight hours more of sleep. Knowing my slumber- 
less propensities, you can imagine how weary I was. 

Wednesday, May 29th 

This morning we spent in a very ordinary machine gun 
drill, about which there's nothing much to say. But the 
afternoon was an event. I had my first ten shots with a 
rifle — and out of the ten, I hit the target six times! Of 
course, the Second Platoon won out in the firing — but why 
mention that? — -that's to be expected! In the evening, 
several of us went down to the village and indulged in a 

47 



delicious pudding, which we had wisely ordered the even- 
ing before. Then, as Sammy says, "Home and to bed!" 
Thursday, May 30th (Decoration Day) 

This is a holiday — but oh! oh! oh! and again, whew! 
When the Commanding General of all the American Armies 
comes to visit a camp, there's not much holiday for the 
inmates. Policing every corner of the camp, scrubbing 
leggins, shining shoes, cleaning out quarters, lining up per- 
sonal equipment neatly on the floor — making everything 
look like a new pin. I tried to write this screed today, and 
I've succeeded. But here are the places where I've camped 
— first, on my spare parts box at my own bunk, until the 
room had to be cleaned out — then over in the canteen, 
until a British sergeant very politely requested me to 
vamoose, so that they could clean it. From there I trotted 
off to the barracks again, and sat on the boardwalk, with 
my letter on my knee. (On reading this over, I find I 
neglected to mention that we didn't see the general!) 
Then, after mess, Conboy, Clark Kenyon and 1 started off 
in search of delicacies for the palate. We found a place 
where there were eggs to be had — and chocolate, bread, 
chips, pate, coffee, milk and other things. We had to 
wait in the little outer store while Madame prepared the 
viands — and there, on Madame's butter-and-cheese coun- 
ter, part of this screed was done. Then inside, in Madame's 
little dining room, we ate — and in the odd intervals, "Pete" 
scrivened a bit more. After dinner, we wandered off in 
search of a shady, grassy spot in a meadow — and found it, 
too. And so here I am, stretched prone on the grass, fin- 
ishing the story of a perfect week. And as the Mother 
Goose tale has it, "Now my story's done." Lots of love 
to you all — and keep on writing letters! They're priceless. 

Friday, May 31st 

Today was muster day — that second-best of all army 
celebrations. (The best, of course, is pay-day — though 
this time it's going to be of interest to me chiefly as a Day 
of Settlement, when I'll clean up my debts and start 
clear.) Don't get the idea that borrowing in the army is 
like borrowing in civilian life. Money, out here, is a sort 
of community possession, and if one man is "broke," 

48 



there's hardly a man in the company who won't lend him 
what he needs — and there's always somebody broke. 
Some pitch pennies till suddenly they find they've run 
out of pennies and francs, too; others patronize the vin 
blanc a bit too generously on some one big evening; others 
plunge in chocolate, and pass it around lavishly till choco- 
late and money run out simultaneously. I went broke 
shortly after my "squad party." But nobody cares; all 
we do is to make sure, before we go on a foraging expedi- 
tion, that somebody in the bunch has got enough to pay the 
bill. So much for a Utopian democracy in which every man 
earns his dollar a day! In many ways it can offer advan- 
tages of which the social system of our civil life can't boast. 

Saturday, June 1st 

Here's another Saturday that finds us working most of 
the afternoon. As one of the boys said in the hut, "I wish 
they'd call this doggoned war off. It's something terrible 
the way it cuts into my afternoons." 

We're getting certain parts of our instruction now from 
a British corporal who is certainly a sketch. The "bloom- 
in' blighta" is blessed with a Cockney accent, and a bit of 
vitriolic humor which he delights in letting loose on the 
boys when they're not "up to snuff" on the drilling. He'll 
notice a point in the drill at which Number Four men in 
each squad have failed to run up to perform a certain 
duty. "Ah-h-h! Look at 'em! Ahn't they greyceful, 
standing there, now. 
They want a special 
inviteyetion, I suppose!" 
Some of his stuff is very 
amusing, and although 
the fellows call him the 
"wild boar," they know 
t\at his bark is a whole 
lot worse than his bite. 
When we knocked off about four, I went to the hut, and 
rigged up a very comfortable "writing-room." There's a 
bank and a gutter around our shack, and here's a cross- 
section of how I fixed myself. I got quite a lot of back-letters 
cleaned up, but oh, how stiff my legs were when I quit ! 

49 




Saturday, June 1st — (Letter to P&L) 

You can't imagine how good it is to see the old P&L 
earmarks on the mail as it comes in every few days. The 
platoon sergeant comes to the door of our hut and calls 
''Mail!" Of course, there's a rush — -but nobody except 
me can be certain that there's mail coming to him before 
his name is called. I can see the Peanelogram envelopes 
sticking out way down at the bottom of the pack — and 
long white envelopes, too. Thanks to you and Mr. Juenker, 
the P&L mailing list, mother and (s-sh! keep it dark!) 
one or perhaps two faithful damsels, I do pretty well as 
regards mail. I got twenty-six letters in one mail! 

By the way, — as regards what I am interested in at the 
office — -I'm interested in everything, and that's a fact. 
I'd like to see the fall magazine list, and know about the 
copy plans and all that. So, when you write, don't leave 
out things like that just because I'm a corporal instead 
of an ad-man! I'd like to keep so in touch with things 
that I could come right in and get in line again at the old 
desk at twenty-four hours' notice. 

We're working like the Old Harry these days, and thanks 
to the exigencies of the case, we're putting in some time on 
holidays like Sunday and Saturday afternoon. But the 
work is very interesting and varied, and the fellows keep 
pretty cheerful. The funniest part of it all is that nobody 
knows what the next moment is going to bring forth — 
whether in half an hour we'll be out in the parade ground 
studying the mechanism of the gun, packing mules and 
limbers, learning the fine points of sighting and aiming, or 
whether we'll be off on a hike with full packs, rifles, hel- 
mets, gas-masks and machine guns, on our way to rifle 
range, machine gun range, practice trenches or "gas- 
house." The result of this uncertainty is that one of the 
pet camp remarks is "What's the next formation?" and 
the million-and-one repetitions of the same question make 
the top sergeant's life miserable. 

One thing the soldier learns to do par excellence is to 
stand in line, and that doesn't mean merely in ranks, 
either! We stand in line for breakfast, dinner and supper. 
After each meal we stand in line to wash our mess-kits. 

50 



We stand in line for "issue" — that is, when guns, ammuni- 
tion or other material is being given out — for mail, for 
payroll and later on for pay — and soldier etiquette keeps 
that fair and square, too — the one sure way to create a 
hubbub is to pretend that you're going to break in. It 
sounds more like a bunch of angry bears than a crowd of 
budding heroes! Oh, and I forgot to mention the can- 
teens! You always have to stand in line to buy anything 
there — and invariably, when you want chocolate, the fel- 
low in front of you buys the last cake, and you're "out o' 
luck." 

We had a very interesting time this week; beginning on 
Sunday we indulged in "manoeuvres" — war-game stuff. 
Between that time and Tuesday morning at six A. M., I 
got just one and one-half hour's sleep! But I learned more 
than I've ever learned in any other forty-eight hours. My 
squad mounted its gun (I have the honor to be a gun com- 
mander now, you know!) up in line with seven others, 
prepared to drop a barrage on a cross-roads where some 
imaginary Germans were supposed to be bringing up sup- 
plies. That meant that we had to pitch our little "pup- 
tents" up there in the woods behind our gun, and have a 
man on guard all the time waiting for the rocket that was 
the "S. 0. S." signal. The rocket went up at 3 :14 A. M — 
and after that came "stand-to" — that's the danger-hour, 
you know, when every soldier in the trenches must be 
awake and at his post. Then there were lectures in range- 
finding, map-reading and the various other phases of war- 
fare that the manoeuvre was bringing up. Then just 
when we expected peace and sleep, our squad was appoint- 
ed as a picket line to cover the "retreat" of our machine 
guns, against the "advancing Germans." There weren't 
any Germans in the ground up there in that lonely spot — 
but believe me, there were plenty of pyrotechnics in the 
sky. One venturous Boche "got his" while we were up 
there, and almost over our heads, too. A raid, by the 
way, is a very familiar thing to us in camp now — we have 
'em in the neighborhood almost any clear night — but 
they're none the less interesting. You'll hear the buzz of 
the planes overhead in the pitchy dark. Then suddenly, 

51 



you'll see a searchlight shoot across the sky — then from 
another point, a second goes up. Soon the sky is inter- 
lined with them. Then you'll see them criss-cross each 
other as they try to get a bead on "Jerry." Then you'll 
see a lot of star-shells go up — then the anti-aircraft guns 
begin booming — and if you're near enough, they whistle 
to beat the band as they go overhead. Then — if the 
Allies are having a lucky night — you'll see a flash of fire 
shooting down toward the ground, and shortly after, the 
lights are out, the firing stopped, and all is quiet. The 
incident is closed, and one more "Jerry" is done for. That 
was what happened the other night up there — and besides, 
the continuous flashes on the horizon of the guns at the 
front, twenty miles or so away, all lent realism to a none- 
too-pleasant job. Then at one A. M., we had to scout 
down through the woods to camp, only to find that the 
rest of the company was all ready to start on the hike for 
home. We soon joined them, and then four hours later 
we were in our camp again — what was left of us ! We threw 
ourselves down on the hard board floors, and slept — slept 
till lunch-time, crawled over to the mess-hall and ate, 
crawled back and slept again till supper-time. Then, to 
my great surprise, we all slept like dogs that night, too! 
I don't remember ever in my life having slept eighteen 
hours out of twenty-four — but then, I don't remember 
ever going forty-eight hours with less than two hours' 
slumber, either! 

As you may guess from the looks of this scrawl, it's 
getting so pitch-dark I simply can't see, so I'll have to 
quit. But before I do, I'm going to urge you once again 
to write as often as you can, because over here, every letter 
is worth its weight in gold. And give my regards to every- 
body! 

Sunday, June 2nd 

A well-directed "diary-letter" for today would read 
something like this: "Rose early and went to the village 
to church. Then wandered out into the country with a 
book and a pal and snoozed the rest of the day." But this 
isn't a short-story, it's a truth and hence a long-story; it's a 
fact, so I have to switch off at "rose early" and admit that 

52 



instead of going to church, we went out to the rifle range! 
Yes, and spent a very interesting morning there, too, 
shooting at five hundred yards. I hit the target, which 
was more than I expected to do — but I don't think they'll 
have to buy a new target because of any damage i" did to 
it with my ten shots! One bunch of us started back for 
the barracks before the rest were finished — an unusual 
procedure, a sort of concession because it was Sunday. 
Our good old top sergeant marched us home, and under 
his leadership, before we'd gone very far, we had the whole 
column whistling march tunes — a regular fife and drum 
corps without the drums, and all in time with the marching 
step, too — a thing that it's almost impossible to do when 
the whole company is marching together. You can't 
imagine what a tonic that whistling and singing on the 
march is to the men; they seem to be a different 
bunch ! 

At any rate, we did get the other half of our day of 
rest — and instead of resting, a bunch of us started off down 
the road to one of the larger towns nearby. A lorry 
picked us up and gave us a bully lift; so we got there in 
ample time to grab a nice beefsteak, three fried eggs, many 
chips, bread and butter and coffee. We passed one block 
of buildings that had been bombed recently. There it 
was, a great big gaping hole where two houses had been, 
with the debris piled upon itself in the cellar, and torn 
and splintered beams — great logs of walnut and oak, many 
of them — torn from their centuries-old position, and left 
sticking ludicrously out of the ruins, looking almost like 
gnarled and twisted fingers reaching skyward to grasp 
their assailant. This effect was so realistic in one case 
that it startled me. 

But there, in the midst of all that destruction, the 
indomitable spirit of France showed itself. Here was a 
square of homes and shops without a window intact, with 
debris in the streets and perhaps victims in the hospital. 
The wound in the heart of the town was fresh. Yet on the 
roughly planked-up doors there were little signs "Jean 
Saniez et son epicerie reviendront ici demain." "Mme. Breton 
est allee a B Elle revient ce soir. La boucherie est 

53 



toute prete a continuer." "Business as usual!" — and a 
sniff for the Hun and his rain of bombs! But in another 
doorway I saw Old France! — the France that is passing, I 
think. There, just inside the doorstep of one house, sat 
an aged couple, both sitting quite straight in stiff wooden 
chairs. The woman was wrinkled like a brown, dried-up 
apple, and bent so that the chair-back served her not at 
all. She was staring out the door, at nothing, apparently, 
but who knows? Perhaps she saw a distant camp or bat- 
tlefield — perhaps she merely saw the past. 

The old man wore baggy brown corduroys, rakish put- 
tees — doubtless the gift of a kindly poilu; and from under 
his old French soldier's cap his long white hair fell over his 
shoulders. In his hand was an ancient fiddle, and the 
expression on his face — it was more an emotion than a 
mere expression — seemed to say, "Old friend, you'll never 
sing again." But it was only a glimpse as we passed 
the door, and a sunbeam slipped in and showed it to 
me. Maybe they'll smile again — France does things like 
that. 

On the way home, we had two fine lifts — one a speedy 
Royal Flying Corps bus, with nice leather seats, and a 
dozen black devils in its motor, each one saying, "Faster! 
Faster!" Then, when they dropped us, we were picked up 
by a huge contrivance that must have had an aeroplane or 
something concealed inside it. At any rate, it brought us 
home in jig-time. And then came good old Morpheus, who 
is getting to be as good a friend of mine on the hard floor 
as he used to be when I disported myself on springs. 

Monday, June 3rd 

Bobby Hillyer's birthday, Mr. Davis' birthday, and — 
is it Brother Bill's, too? But to us it was the greatest day 
of all — pay-day! The line formed, I took my pay — 96 
francs — from Lieut. Sam. Hall, Mr. McNulty's friend, 
and then, in common with most of the rest of the company, 
I ran madly around looking for the creditors on my little 
list. Several forgotten little sous came into my coffers, 
too — which helped things considerably! As is usual with 
pay-day, it was so much the event du jour that I don't 
think I'll insult it by chronicling any other happenings. 

54 



Tuesday, June 4th 

At noon today we knocked off, because the word came 
that we were to move. At three-thirty the order changed, 
and took the company out for a hike with packs — but 
your 'umble servant continued to snooze for another 
hour, and then shined and brushed up a bit to go on once 
more as Corporal of the Guard. This time, however, the 
job was as quiet as the grave, and therefore a minus quan- 
tity as regards news material. You know what Poor 
Richard said — "Happy that nation, fortunate that age, 
whose history is not diverting!" 

Wednesday, June 5th 

This morning I've been sitting here in the sun out- 
side the guardhouse writing trash to you. 

This afternoon I was roused from my more or less well- 
earned slumber in the guardhouse; they wanted my rifle, 
to turn it in. The rifle was replaced by a borrowed pistol, 
which I hung on my belt and wore for the rest of the day. 
I felt like Captain Kidd! 

When we got off guard at five o'clock the water in the 
bathhouse was on. That was good — but when a good, 
kind friend whispered in my ear, "There is going to be 
warm water at seven-thirty," that made it better yet. 
Incidentally, that's the only way to grab off your share of 
semi-luxuries in the well-known army — 'freeze onto a 
friendly tip, and keep mum. Ten minutes after we had our 
bath, there was a mob clamoring to get in — and nothing 
but frigid water for 'em! 

Rumors of our departure have been hanging around for 
days — and of course, the turning in of the rifles multiplied 
them tenfold. Here they are, thus far! We're going to 
stay here; we're going to a point about eighteen miles from 
here; we're going to hike for two days, three days or four 
days, and then take a train; we're going to an American 
base, a hundred to a hundred and eighty miles away; and 
there are others that are too wild to be at all credible. You 
can imagine, though, what happened to the rumors when 
the order came, at about dark, to come and get our rifles 
and ammunition again ! 

55 



Thursday, June 6th 

Oh, boy, what a day! It started at reveille — "We're 
leaving this camp today," sez the captain. "Turn in 
your rifles after this formation — also your ammunition," 
sez the top sarge. And we turned 'em in — this time, we 
hope, for good, as rumor says we're going to get better 
ones. Then came the order, "Roll packs, overcoat rolls 
and blanket rolls." Then "All squads out to pack lim- 
bers — bring all equipment, machine guns, etc." Out we 
swarmed onto the parade ground with all our possessions — 
such a polyglot array of stuff you never saw! And then, 
when our work was about half completed, came the clarion 
call from headquarters — "Stop packing limbers" — then, 
a little later, "Turn in all machine guns and equipment!" 
That little thing we immediately did, though it meant 
carting about twelve wagonloads of stuff half way across 
camp. 

This conflict of orders seems hard to understand until 
one realizes that in a divisional movement like this, a 
company of a hundred and seventy men is hardly a flea- 
bite in a division of thirty thousand, and that the problem 
is to move the division, not to pamper a company with 
absolute precision and sequence of orders. 

Well, then we had to draw "iron rations" — then eat 
noon mess — then clean up the camp, sling packs, and be 
ready to move off. Our dee-licious pack, overcoat roll 
and extra shoes we carried; our "blanket roll," containing 
our extra blanket, personal belongings and bed-sack, went 
on the wagons. 

At about quarter past one, we got the order to march — 
and we marched until after eleven that evening, with no 
rest except supper-hour and the customary ten minutes by 
the roadside at the end of each marching hour. We passed 
through village after village, each with its quaint little 
church, mairie, ecole and handful of white, red-tiled or 
thatched cottages. We did all the things that soldiers do 
on hikes — swore at the sun, the army, the Germans and 
the packs; sat in thistles, nettles and nice sharp stones; 
ate white chalk dust, brown ordinary dust and petrol- 
laden automobile dust; got thirsty and swore at the absent 

56 



water-cart; swore at the chlorinated apology for a drink 
that we eventually got, but drank it just the same; sang a 
little, whistled a little, and then simmered down into that 
state of silent apathy in which a company keeps perfect 
step and eats up miles as regularly as clockwork. Some, 
of course, wavered a bit, and a few of the less hardy allowed 
their packs to be loaded on the limbers. But the old Third 
Squad was intact at the end of the day's march. It's a 
most peculiar sensation to be on the move without the 
slightest idea of your destination or your direction, when 
even the major of your battalion only gets his orders a 
couple of hours ahead, and often has them countermanded 
or changed at a few minutes' notice. Even the compass 
helps but little as in the hilly section we're going through 
today, you tramp all around Robin Hood's barn to get 
anywhere. 

The order "Company — halt!" comes at ten minutes 
before the clock hour. Then "Fall out on the right side of 
the road — remove packs!" follows, and you're there for 
ten minutes. It's a funny thing that it's impossible to 
make good fall-out spots and minute-hands coincidental. 
At two minutes of fall-out time, you'll be passing through 
a beautiful wood, with grassy banks on each side of the 
road, and a cool breeze blowing. Two minutes later the 
order will come to fall out, and you'll awake from your 
lethargy to find the wood somewhere in your past history, 
and your present stopping-place a sun-baked open spot 
along the roadside, with the sun hammering the right 
bank and leaving the forbidden left bank shady. Then a 
string of ten or fifteen British Army lorries will come lum- 
bering by, and add to your joys by presenting you with a 
neat talcum-powder bath of chalk dust. Then, in ten 
minutes, you're on your way once more, gargling the dust 
out of your mouth with one precious gulp of water. 

At about ten o'clock the word came that we had only a 
half mile more to go. Well — all I need to say is that we 
arrived at our destination an hour and a half later, and 
that "only a half-mile more" has been added to the com- 
pany's collection of humorous by-words. 

Finally, we got to our camp— a field just outside of F , 

where there were a few members of a British labor company 

57 



already quartered. It was certainly great to see those 
tired boys go to it, unroll their packs and pitch tents in 
the inky darkness. I pitched with Hammond, who is an 
old sailor. The result was that our tent was up among the 
first, and we hit the hay before twelve — but not before I 
had heard a disquieting rumor. 

Friday, June 7th 

For once in her life, Dame Rumor told the truth ! That 
everlastingly condemned bugle blew at four-thirty! O-ooch! 
Then came mess at five, in the cold, clammy, dewy morn- 
ing — then the rolling of packs — and then, at six o'clock to 
the dot, the assembling in company front, packs slung, gas- 
masks and other paraphernalia around our necks — then 
"Right by squads!" and once more we were off. (By the 
way, speaking of duds, I've one more possession now — a 
pair of very good field glasses — oh, and a whistle, too — 
I'd almost forgotten that. We corporals are getting quite 

flossy!). We inarched out of F with the rumor floating 

about that we had only eleven miles to go. That was at 
six in the morning. At four in the afternoon we arrived at 

C . You can figure out for yourself the length of each 

one of those miles! We passed through countless little 
towns and villages, saw a quaint old blacksmith shop, and 

an water-wheel that was a scenic gem. The boys, 

however, were too weary to take much stock in scenery! 

At about noon, the word was given to fall out — and for 

once we had a real spot — right on the edge of C , the 

town in which we were to be billeted for the night. At 
the side of the road (and this time we were allowed to fall 
out on the forbidden left) was a little spring-fed stream, 
cold and clear as crystal — just a tiny affair, a foot or two 
wide. Well, the boys almost literally "fell out," they were 
so completely fagged — and then "fell in," and bathed tired, 
swollen, blistered feet in that heaven-sent stream. It was 
agony at first, but only for an instant — and so effective a 
stimulant was it, that one by one the boys began to dis- 
appear, to turn up again in little estaminets and epiceries all 
over the village. "Con" and "Ken" and I scouted around, 
found a very little to eat, and also some excellent Bordeaux 
rouge — something hardly obtainable in the neighborhood 

58 



we just left. After an hour or so, we returned to the 
roadside, and from there marched up the road a bit 
further, to where the trusty old field kitchen was located. 
There our international culinary department (Melidones 
the Greek, Schnackenburg, Neuendorff and Karoly) handed 
us the noonday chow. The next couple of hours we killed 
around the little town, in search of eggs, a few of which 
we found — then the company fell in once more, loaded the 
old packs on our humps once again, and started off for our 
billets — up a hill as steep as the old cellar door, and nearly 
a mile long. At last we got there, and found our quarters. 
Our platoon was billeted in a roomy barn which belonged 
to quite a pretentious farmhouse. The floor was covered 
with straw, and there were little holes in the wall here and 
there, through one of which a calf in the next shed peeked 
in at me. We grabbed a good spot in a corner for our 
squad, and proceeded to settle. Then "Con" and "Ken" 
and I started off scouting again, got a few more eggs and 
then hiked back to the barn. The search for the hen-fruit 
was a study in itself. We visited probably half a dozen 
houses, but everyone was out "dans les champs" — where 
the women work until eight o'clock! Finally, though, we 
got an old mother to boil our booty for us — and mean- 
while, in French, "Randy" conducted a running fire of 
conversation — about the war, about conditions in France 
— and about the American soldiers. We are the first U. S. 
boys that have come this way, and the people seem very 
cordial, though I don't think they quite know what to 
make of us, at that! 

When we got back to the barn, we added "Jud" Clark 
to our little party — Jud's feet were bothering him so he 
hadn't moved. After we'd had our feast, we heard that 
the field kitchen was going to bring our dinner up the hill 
to us. It was a case of the mountain coming to Mahomet, 
because in their condition, the boys would have gone hun- 
gry rather than trudge down and up that hill again. It 
was good mess, too — well worthy to be praised — as it was ! 
(Betwixt the writing of that word "was" and the placing 
of that exclamation point many things have happened. 
I'll chronicle them all in turn, though.) 

59 



When our feast was over, we literally "hit the hay" — 
and about that, too, there is a story. One of the sergeants 
beckoned to me "You talk French," he said. "Let's you 
and I go over here and see if we can't rent a real bed for 
tonight." I agreed, and, crossing the barnyard, we 
knocked at the door; no one was at home, because, as I 
found out later, "En France, maintenant tout le monde 
travaille." We peeped in at one window, and what we 
saw made our mouths water. A huge fat bed — an opulent 
sort of bed, with counterpane, deep pillows and inches upon 
inches of the finest mattress. The room itself was spotless. 
But madame was not at home, so we questioned one of the 
workmen about the place. Oh, sans doute — madame would 
rent us the room on her return. And just then it came to 
me — "'Pete', old boy, you're campaigning now — and 
you're not playing the game!" So off I trotted back to 
the barn, where "Con" had made up our "bed." And in 
that bed we slept the sleep of the just — also of the very, 
very tired — until reveille. 

Saturday, June 8th 

"Con," "Ken" and I decided that we wanted some real 
breakfast — and we found it, and with it a little of the heart 
of France. Our threesome was in search of eggs, chips 
and perhaps something else. "Fini — Fini" was the answer 
we got at all the larger houses — regretful, but decided. At 
last we came to a little cottage — poverty itself. An old, 
old woman was the only human thing near by. She started 
with the usual "Fini," but suddenly, "Vous etes trois!" 
she said, and her attitude changed entirely. She went 
out, searched the barn and found eggs; got potatoes; 
gave us each a big slice of her priceless bread, and butter, 
too. More — a cup of delicious cafe au lait. And then she 
showed us the reason for her hospitality. "Ce sont mes 
trois fils," she said, and showed us three photos, each in an 
elaborate French gingerbread frame. One a sergeant; one 
a private; one a prisoner in Germany, and all three the 
perfection of intelligent manhood. Then she showed us 
their letters; and finally, when we inquired the price of 
her bounty, she reluctantly said "Two francs two pence" 

60 



— she didn't want to charge us anything! We finally- 
pressed five francs on her, and went our way. 

Soon we were once more on the march — and after a 
fatiguing day's hike, arrived at the most perfect camping- 
spot I have ever seen. At a little before four in the after- 
noon, we turned off the main road, and down a long hill, 
and there we came on a veritable little paradise — and not 
so little, either, as it sheltered nearly a thousand men that 
night. It was a perfectly level plain, perhaps eight acres 
in extent, and shaded by huge poplars, which after the 
French fashion, had been set out in even rows by some 
nice old farmer. The grass was quite close-cropped, and 
studded with buttercups and other flowers. At one end 
of the plain was a spring of delicious water, pure as crystal, 
at the other was a creek, perhaps thirty feet wide, deep 
enough for diving, and yet so clear that the bottom was 
plainly visible. Just beyond the camp the stream turned 
a quaint old water-wheel which drove our two artists, 
Schmitt and Clubley, quite insane. There we spent our 
evening — and the night — one of perfect slumber. There, 
too, the first installment of this screed was written. Inci- 
dentally — I almost forgot to mention it — I had my first 
swim since I've been soldiering. And did I enj oy it? Whee ! 

Sunday, June 9th 

Our morning was a lazy one, in that glorious spot, with 
little except foot inspection to interrupt my diary and my 
snoozing — until, at 3:32, a cyclone struck the camp, in 
the shape of an order from headquarters — "Strike tents 
and roll packs immediately!" The captain was away — 
the major was away — and half the fellows were off in the 
neighboring towns with permission to stay till 5:30. If 
you'll turn back a few pages in this screed, you'll find a 
parenthetical interruption. That was the minute when I 
jumped up out of my comfy tent and started to move. 
Forty minutes later the column was on the march ! That 
meant sending scouts to seek and bring back the absent, 
striking camp, policing the whole area, packing the trans- 
port, harnessing the horses and all that. Can an army 
jump? You bet! 

61 



We hiked off about four miles, and pitched tents again 
in a field near a railroad. Then we had field-kitchen mess, 
and turned in. 

Monday, June 10th 

"Con" and I (we pitch tents together regularly now) 
struck our tents and rolled our packs among the first, so 
that we had time to be a bit leisurely about mess. After 
breakfast we marched a couple of miles further, to a siding 
where our train was drawn up — a train composed of box 
cars for the men and horses, and flat cars for the wagons. 
Ours was a de luxe car — we had our top sergeant, a pla- 
toon sergeant, two other sergeants and the whole Third 
Squad, including your "Corp. Pete," among our nineteen 
men. When I tell you that we were on that car for nearly 

days, and that in that days we ate and slept there, 

you'll begin to realize that your little son is getting some 
hardened! As a matter of fact, for a journey of that sort, 
a box car is far preferable to a day coach, because at least 
one can stretch out to sleep, and walk about a bit. 

Between us, and with the help of a newspaper item, we 
cooked up the idea of having a stove in the car. It was no 
sooner conceived than executed, and with the aid of three 
petrol tins, some wire and an odd sheet of tin, we soon had 
a grand stove working. We had hot mess, and warmth to 
take the chill off a raw, foggy day. You can't imagine the 
picturesque scene we made — sprawled at all angles over 
the floor, with packs strewn about and mess-kits clutched 
lovingly in (it must be confessed!) grimy hands. It's a 
point in constant debate whether a soldier's best friend 
is his gas-mask or his mess-kit. Just now, the odds favor 
the mess-kit — but then, we've never been in a gas-attack! 
Of course, there were songs — but the prize joke of the day 
was pulled when , j ust at the smoky stage of our fire, we went 
into a long, black tunnel. When we emerged, there in the 
middle of the floor was "Old Sol" Schnitz, fully arrayed in 
his gas-mask. Preparedness is his motto, all right ! When 
I tell you that we traveled just about as far from our former 
location as it's possible to go and still remain in France, 
you'll be able, I think, to get some idea of where we are. 
Incidentally, when my grandchildren read out of their 

62 



French grammars, "Avez-vous vu la Tour Eiffel?" I'll be 
able to answer in the affirmative — though it was from 
quite a distance and through a heavy fog. 

When we came through a large and very beautiful city 
near there, the train stopped, and we were fed coffee — fed 
from the hands of very beautiful demoiselles — I think they 
must have been of the stage, they were so uniformly 
attractive. 

I'm finding it impossible to separate our train-ride into 
days. We slept when we felt like it, and stayed awake 
when the spirit moved us. So I'm just going to give you 
incidents of the voyage as they come to me. 

Thursday, June 18th 

We passed, on our trip, through one of the large cities 
that has long been a German objective, and which has 
been bombarded many times. It is, of course, only here 
and there that the firing has had effect, but every little dis- 
tance there appears a great, gaping hole that marks the 
successful end of one shell's earthward trip. Then win- 
dows for yards around are shattered, and tiled roofs marked 
with shell-fire. The streets, of course, are an indication 
that many people have left the town, but those who are 
there seem smiling and happy, and have none of the hunted 
look that you would expect of civilians in a bombarded 
city. Of course, in almost every town you see signboards 
directing you to the nearest "abri" — the dugouts that are 
used by the cautious in case of air-raids. 

As we got further along on our way, and hence further 
from the front, things grew brighter, and we got at least a 
glimpse of what France must be like in peace-time. The 
thing that impressed me most was the great open spaces — 
the general aspect of the country seems more that of our 
Middle West than that of an old, crowded continental 
nation. Another peculiar thing is the perfect way in 
which people in different sections agree about architecture. 
One section says, "The angle of a roof should be very 
obtuse. It is written — it is the mode — it shall be done — " 
and it is ! — and a few hundred kilos away some other wise- 
acre decrees, "Nay — they must all be most acute" — and 
he, too, is obeyed by the whole countryside! They still, 

63 



however, seem to concur in red roofs — which must be 
most pleasant for Boche aerial bombers ! 

Of course, it turned out that anything as completely 
attractive as our stove had to be "Verboten" — so our 
good friend was doused, and his cadaver thrown to the 
four winds, while we garnered a doubtless well-earned 
reprimand from our C. O. For the rest of the trip we had 
cold eats. 

Toward the end of our journey we stopped at a large 
town, where, to our unutterable, uncontrollable, hysterical 
joy, we were fed tomato soup (which was incidental) by 
completely charming American society girls in chic, crisp, 
clean Red Cross uniforms. Back in the States, I've had 
my little say about the senselessness of young girls going 
trotting off across the seas on just such errands. I take it 
all back. To have been able to do what that little group 
of two or three did for that tired, fagged trainload of boys 
would in itself have justified an ocean voyage. And 
they're doing it every day! I was very much tickled when, 
with no further urging than the force of example, every 
man in our car shaved daily while we were on the train, 
though it meant juggling with a few drops of canteen water 
in the bottom of a cup — and then washing in an inch or so 
more. You can't imagine the effect shaving has on morale. 
You could almost see the fellows buck up ! 

When at last we got off the train, we landed in a very 
prosperous little manufacturing town of three or four 
thousand — evidently a munitions center, with many new 
and very beautiful homes, and yet a certain not-quite- 
finished air that was not at all French, and much more 
American, it seemed to me. However, the greeting we got 
was truly French — the most enthusiastic we've had any- 
where. All the boys were showered with flowers — I'm 
enclosing a white rose that a little French girl stuck in 
my hat. One boy — a youngster of about ten — grabbed 
my hand and trudged along with me for fully two miles , 
meanwhile giving me all the gossip. His father was "tue 
a la guerre" — there was a big gas-mask factory in the 
town — another where they made uniform cloth — he went 
out to the aviation field every Sunday; — a running fire of 

64 



chatter that never even slowed up. I taught him how to 
say "Stars and Stripes," and then sent him home. That 
night we camped in an ordinary and quite uninteresting 
field, "Con" and I acting as partners once more. 

Next morning we started on what was to prove the last 
lap of our journey, for the present, at least. The sun was 
scorching and although until now I've experienced no foot 
trouble worth mentioning, that baking road had me almost 
ready to cry "Nuff !" However, the end of the journey 
was reached by noon, so we all held out to the finish. When 
we arrived, we found no "Base" with all that implies — 
hot showers, Y. M. C. A.'s and the like. Instead, we 
arrived at what one of the boys, in a letter home, has 
described perfectly as a "poverty-stricken, God-forsaken, 
one-horse French village." We have pitched our tents in a 
field on a hillside overlooking the little place, and feel 
quite settled now, though it's just twenty-seven hours 
since we got here. The town is so primitive that the 
natives wear wooden shoes, live in the house with the 
cattle, and listen to a town-crier at sundown. There's 
one feature, though, for which we've blessed the town 
fathers more than once — the half dozen or so public wash- 
ing-stones around the town! Ever since we arrived, 
they've been surrounded by our boys, who are apparently 
more anxious for clean clothes than they've ever been 
before. When I tell you that this morning I washed an 
0. D. shirt, two pair of socks, three "hankies," a suit of 
underwear and a towel and then went to an ice-cold mill- 
pond nearby and washed myself, you'll have to admit that 
it's a clean little son who's writing you. It's time, though, 
for him to go down and shave, thereby qualifying for the 
military Beau Brummel Club — after which he and "Con" 
will go out on their regular nocturnal hunt for palate- 
tickling delicacies. 

What our plans are now, nobody seems to know. We 
expect to be here for a few days at any rate, and are expect- 
ing an issue of clothing and equipment to replace worn- 
out and damaged articles — also, I hear, wrapped leggins, 
summer caps, and — glory be! — pistols instead of those 
confounded rifles! 

65 



I'm still awaiting your first letter written after the 
receipt of one of mine. One should come in the next lot. 
Lots of love to all. 

Friday, June 14-th 

Today has been a lazy day, marked by no special events 
except (joy uncompared!) our return to the protecting arm 
of an American division headquarters and the consequent 
reappearance in our midst of real American rations — 
though all we did tonight was look at them — the first 
meal under the good old-new regime will be tomorrow's 
breakfast. One of the daughters of the old lady in whose 
field we are encamped, came up yesterday to ask that, as 
we were trampling the hay down behind our row of tents, 
we would assign two American farmers to cut it down. 
My pal "Con" and another husky ex-farmer volunteered, 
and I appointed myself manager. They did their work 
well, though their remarks on the pre-historic scythes she 
furnished were interesting, to say the least ! And no sooner 
did they report that their labors for the day were ended, 
than our friends brought out refreshment — -precious bread, 
bacon, fried eggs and vin rouge — in which, of course, in 
my capacity as interpreter and general manager, I par- 
ticipated. There's still a bit more to be cut, and we expect 
to work still another meal out of it. You'd smile to see 
the younger of the two sisters sitting on the floor, with a 
tiny anvil in front of her, hammering out the edge of each 
precious hand-made scythe — for all the world like the 
Armorer in Ted's favorite ditty, x (It may interest you to 
know that this whole installment of nearly two pages, 
down to the little "x,"was written while I had my gas- 
mask on. No, I'm not in the midst of a gas-attack, but 
we're getting two or three hours a day of gas instruction 
now, and as it was raining today, the captain ordered us 
to wear the bloomin' thing in our tents for twenty min- 
utes. I decided that inasmuch as we've got to learn how 
to do pretty nearly everything with the jigger on, I might 
as well start out by scribbling a bit — so there you are!) 
Saturday, June 15th 

Beefsteak for breakfast — beefsteak for dinner — beef 
stew for supper! So much for day No. 1 of the American 

66 



food regime. Oh, boy, how we did go for it! And yet, 
despite that, "Con" and I went out on our daily ration- 
rustling party, and gathered in five eggs, three fried and 
two scrambled, many chips, and other little items of 
gastronomic interest, including a perfectly gee-lorious 
smelly cheese — it would be priceless back in the States, 
but here it was only about three francs. So much for the 
appetite of the well-known Sammy. 

Sunday, June 16th 

As we had to receive two hours of gas instruction this 
morning, I didn't go to church, but spent the odd moments 
of the morning in writing a little, shaving and washing up, 
down at the washing-stone at the foot of the hill. Then 
"Con" and I grabbed our mess and hurried back to our 
tent — for our squad had been given a "detail" — a job to 
be done before we could call our day's work finished. We 
had to scare up a hundred and eighty nice round stones, 
which are to be used for practice in throwing bombs. 

Then there was mail — four letters from you, the first 

I've had in over ten days — a letter from S and one 

from B , also your Red Book, "Snappy" and Times. 

Honestly, you can't imagine the plain ornery joy we get 
out of letters. The fellows seem even more cheerful than 
usual, and read long extracts to each other. Letters do 
endless good, believe me. 

Then we started off for a neighboring town where rumor 
had it that things might be bought. Well, I never remem- 
ber in my life before being completely tickled to death at 
getting on the wrong road! The town we struck was not 

M , as we had expected, but G , and who in the 

world should come up and greet me but Warren Case ! Two 
others of the 16th District boys were with him. He's a 
sort of orderly to the captain now, though his main duties 
are those of interpreter. His regiment is quartered there 
for the present; and while his village is not much larger 
than ours, it has the added merit of possessing a chateau 
— a beautiful big place, too, with a sort of moat around it, 
and huge trees surrounding it, leaving little but the cor- 
ner towers visible from a distance. We wandered 'round, 
had one lone drink apiece of very wretched vin Mane, just 

67 



for sociability's sake, saw the town and departed, but 
not before we had dropped in on the butcher-lady and 
purchased a huge beef-heart and a half dozen eggs. War- 
ren has promised to come over to our town if he has time, 
so I hope to see him again before we move. He's looking 
very well, and is freckled to an almost solid brown, and 
he's filled out quite a lot, too. We got home just in time 
for evening mess, but we ate only a little of it in our tent. 
The rest we took down to the home of our friend the Lady 
of the Scythe. She cooked our heart for us — also a huge 
portion of French-frieds, and supplied a big bowl of milk 
apiece. With this we ate some of our precious cheese and 
our army bread, which she said was u comme du gateau," 
so fine and white it is. Then came salad— real Cafe Hugo 
lettuce salad with French dressing — and when that had 
gone its way, she asked, apropos of nothing, if we wouldn't 
like an egg? Of course! If she'd offered us a side of mut- 
ton or a pinch of salt, the answer would have been the same. 
Out here we eat everything we can find, and spend our 
idle time and money looking for more. 

From here, for policy's sake, we went to the home of 
another family with which we've made friends — to have 
our six eggs of the afternoon boiled for the morrow morr- 
nin\ By chance, Monsieur happened to be there, and he 
and I struck up a great camaraderie. We chattered in 
French for over an hour about everything under the sun, 
and before we left, we were given a glass apiece of delicious 
vin rouge, our almost-empty milk-bottle was filled to the 
brim, and our eggs cooked — all that without the expendi- 
ture of a sou! We'll take Monsieur some cigarettes to- 
morrow. He's a good friend to keep. 

Monday, June 17th 

Our first real rainy day in a "pup-tent" — and the little 
thing has stood up mighty well, I think, and vindicated 
its existence by keeping us dry. The little trenches we 
dug around it are running merrily with water, and through 
the open end of the tent, protected only by my raincoat, 
we can see the rain pelting down — but inside we're dry, 
and — well, not exactly warm as Coney in August is warm, 
but at least comfortable. "Con" is asleep beside me, and 

68 



I'm under the blanket, with my little black book propped 
up on a roll of clothes, writing to you. Our day's work is 
done. It consisted of wearing our gas-masks in our tents 
for four periods of a half hour each. I nonchalantly read 
the Red Book most of the time! — wrote a little and half- 
moozed a bit. We're getting quite used to the things. I 
had a pleasant interruption just now — Corp. Schwartz 
came splashing along past our tent, and threw in two let- 
ters, which really turned out to be three — one from you, 
and one from S'Edie, with another from Peggy enclosed. 
They're writing me every Sunday. Believe me, I wish 
about a dozen good friends would do the same. 

Our lunch today was amusing. We didn't relish the 
idea of standing in line for mess in the pelting rain — so we 
"took stock" of our larder — found milk, our friend the 
cheese, some hoarded-up army bread and some dark 
French bread, two hard-boiled eggs and some hard-tack. 
A kind friend brought us up hot coffee, and we rewarded 
him with milk for his own. Then, on the blanket that 
covers the daisies and forms our floor, we spread our table- 
cloth — a towel; and set our places at table neatly and I 
might almost say with meticulous precision. Then we 
ate — two able-bodied business men, three thousand and 
a few odd miles from home, in a little foolish tent in a hay- 
field beside an antediluvian village, in a pelting downpour 
of rain, having a picnic — and grinning over it! It doesn't 
seem real — at least not until a drop of undeniable rain- 
water comes through your almost-perfect roof and splashes 
on your paper, as one did just now. You'll find the blotlet 
on one of these sheets. 

Now they're coming to inspect our gas-masks — I hear 
'em at the next tent — so goodbye for the present. (Later) 
The masks were duly inspected and O. K.'d — then the 
peace of the camp was shattered by an order to fall in to 
receive Automatic Colts. At last my mind is relieved! 
Unless somebody changes his mind again, we won't cart 
any rifles along with us. 

I'm finishing this in the warm, comfy kitchen of our 
friend of last night, where we are drying our raincoats. 
Madeleine (she's the pretty one) is very proud of her 

69 



beautiful new white-pine shoes, in which she's clattering 
around happily. For myself, I'd like her better in pumps! 

Tuesday, June 18th 

Tomorrow we move to that well-known place "Some- 
where Else" — some of us are going to school again, this 
time to learn the intricacies of one more machine gun, the 
Hotchkiss. We're going to be instructed by the French, 
and I'm looking forward to a busy time in my double 
capacity as squad leader and interprete. We went down 
at last to the transport wagons, to get our blanket rolls, 
a fact which indicated that when our few days of schooling 
are over we'll join the company again at some point other 
than this one. 

"Sully" and "Hig," "Con" and I (exactly the ones I had 
already selected in my mind) were picked to go from my 
squad. "Con" and I were very busy this evening cleaning 
out the provisions in our larder, and incidentally, I did a 
full day's secretarial work repairing the gaps in a huge mass 
of correspondence. (Which, by the way, I'm only today 
able to put in the mail !) 

Wednesday, June 19th 

We're of/! — and they're off, too — the rest of the boys 
are going to some new camp on shanks' mare — but we, 
the chosen fifty-nine, are to be whisked away in good old 
U. S. A. trucks — packs and all! Whee! {Later) Five 
truck-loads we made — and a jollier crowd you never saw! 
W T e sang everything we knew and then started making up 
ditties. After riding a while, we entered a section of 
country which, earlier in the war, was in the hands of the 
Germans — and it gives one a new realization of the war's 
long, long continuance, to see this country, once torn and 
bleeding, now once more completely French, with nothing 
but an occasional knoll or hollow here and there to indi- 
cate that once entrenched poilus fought for la patrie on 
this soil. Yes, and there are little crosses, too, scattered 
among the well-tilled fields — crosses each at the head of a 
little garden spot, which is tended with care, by stranger 
hands, perhaps, but none the less faithfully because of 
that. Now and then the trucks would rumble through a 

70 



ruined village — the crumbling walls overgrown with 
weeds and vines, giving them the air of having always 
been there. Some houses have been repaired, and some 
brave souls have gone so far as to rebuild in the scene of 
the old home. There are, of course, in most of the towns, 
homes which received little or no damage, and in these, 
too, the people are continuing their daily life very much 
as usual. This phase of the war was an entirely new one 
to me — that there are places where the war is already his- 
tory — where there are children to whom the war is only a 
half-forgotten nightmare, and where, beside faultless new 
roads, young trees are standing up bravely to take the 
place of the old — where the wounds of battle have disap- 
peared, leaving only the scars — crumbling ruins, weed- 
grown hollows and vivid memories. 

It is interesting to realize that much of the damage was 
done, not by the German artillery, but by the French in 
retaking the villages. This is the case almost without 
exception in the village of M where we are now located. 

We dismounted from the trucks at about noon, and were 
led to our billets — a great roomy barn, centuries old, and 
still in excellent condition. The ceiling is the roof, fully 
thirty feet above our heads — and there, from those huge 
roughhewn rafters, hang countless dust-laden cobwebs, 
almost like a canopy. There are paillasses, also — little 
mattresses filled with straw. We'll be comfortable here. 

But oh, what a blow! We came without cooks — and our 
rations have been given to us raw! Stumped? No, Com- 
pany D is never stumped. A call for cooks — Essie and 
Conboy volunteer; a call for pots and pans — Francis and 
I scour the town, with our best French lingo, and obtain 
the necessary number. Later, we are given the use of an 
excellent field kitchen that has been built by the French 
in a half-ruined house, and our cuisine is complete! 

This afternoon we made the acquaintance of the Hotch- 
kiss — compared with the Vickers, it's a cannon, but it is so 
simple, so direct in its action and so evidently powerful 
that I'm sure we're all going to like it. 

Our program here is very pleasant — from six to ten in 
the morning, and from two to five in the afternoon. The 

71 



rest of our time is our own, to employ in rest, eating, study 
and sleep — and in snooping around this curious old town, 
buying little things in the two or three stores, and in our 
usual pastime of hunting eggs and chips! 

The captain offered to buy enough eggs to supply an egg 
breakfast for every man in the group — nearly sixty. The 
job of finding them devolved on yours truly, because of 
his bit of lingo. I'm getting a mighty interesting insight 
into the French, the people and their homes, through my 
little jaunts. They seem to be so glad to find an American 
with whom they can really talk a bit, that they just open 
their whole souls. 

Event — got chocolate, good chocolate! 

Thursday, June 20th 

We took the gun out in the field today, and learned the 
rudiments of its operation — loading and unloading, mount- 
ing and dismounting, and stripping. The more I see of it, 
the better I like it. It impresses me curiously as being a 
sort of male gun — the parts are few and large, and there 
are no queer little kinks and complications, like those in 
which the Vickers abounds. 

After our afternoon session, Sergt. Ford and I trotted 
about a bit, and then returned to the billets. You'd have 
laughed to see the little scene that was being enacted there. 
Our host, a big, burly farmer, was engaged in the popular 
French pastime of hammering the scythe-blade, his taps 
were coming forth, with perfect precision, to the raggy 
time of the "Ragtime Strutter's Ball," whistled by a half 
dozen or so of our boys! The broad grin on his sun-tanned 
face showed how he enjoyed it! 

About that time something called me — I don't know 
exactly what. I wanted to play the piano — but where was 
I to find such a thing? The first one or two natives I ques- 
tioned hardly knew what a piano was; but the third told 
me that there was one in the hospice. Now back in Amer- 
ica, I hardly think I'd have ventured into a strange nun- 
nery and asked permission to "tickle the ivories;" but, 
somehow, over here, one does all sorts of curious things, 
so I went up the spotless steps and knocked on the door. 
A middle-aged, round, rosy-cheeked sister opened the door 

72 



and welcomed me effusively. But certainly I could play, 
and bring a friend. This evening, then, from seven to 
eight? Agreed! And I went down the steps again almost 
walking on air. We went to mess, and were given the best 
meal that has been our portion since we landed in France 
— cooked, too, in a makeshift kitchen, by volunteer cooks. 
Sergt. Ford and I slipped back to our big loft with ours, 
and there, on a neat little table a deux, laid out our supper. 
Steak, delicious brown gravy with onions, boiled potatoes 
and tomatoes, rice with raisins and dates to make it more 
delectable, and good coffee, made better by a liberal 
application of Sergt. Ford's "private stock" condensed 
milk. Bread, too, with cheese, and delicious apple jam, 
almost like honey, and doubly delicious in this almost 
sugarless country. 

Feeling very much at peace with the world, the Sarge 
and I started off to the hospice. Imagine the "Ossa on 
Pelion" sensation that came over us when our hostess 
greeted us, and ushered us into a very beautiful oak- 
paneled room, with a table in the center, on which, all 
ready for us, were two huge dishes of fresh strawberries, 
half-hidden in powdered sugar!! Soon there were two 
hostesses bending over us to see what they could do for us; 
bread was brought to brighten up the already brilliant 
feast; and then the little ladies silently slipped away, 
leaving us alone with the piano. I don't think I ever 
enjoyed playing any more than I did that hour — there, in 
a convent far out in battle-scarred France. And the good 
sister has invited us to return tomorrow evening, and 
seems almost as anxious to have us as we are to come! 

As the Sarge and I rambled home, we looked up the 
steep, narrow, crooked little street, toward the end, where 
the heavy blue-blackness of the village church-tower was 
silhouetted against a brilliant sunset. "Do you realize," 
I said "that we're in the middle of a war, hardly more 
than a stone's throw from the front?" "Front," he said 
absently, "what do you mean — front?" 

Friday, June 21st 

Today decided all bets. The Hotchkiss is the machine 
gun par excellence! After a very early breakfast, we 

73 



carried the guns out to the range, and there the new gun 
proved itself. Power, flexibility and absolute accuracy 
combine to make the Hotchkiss the best friend we've 
found yet. And this afternoon we learned more of its 
capabilities when we took it out in the field for mounting 
and dismounting drill. We're now all convinced of its 
superiority, except my artist friend Schmitt who sticks to 
his old love so firmly that now we call him "Vickers" 
Schmitt. By the way, the other night I gave him an assign- 
ment to sketch one little bit of streetscape that had pleased 
me. This evening he brought it in — and it's a wonder; 
it's the scene we feasted our eyes on coming home from 
the convent the other night — the narrow bit of street and 
the church tower at the end. 

We went to the hospice again this evening, and this 
time Francis and O'Leary joined us, and by means of our 
combined memories we raked up lots of things to play on 
the funny little piano, and hence had a delightfully remi- 
niscent time. 

Saturday, June 22nd 

Off to the range again this morning, where we pursued 
our studies in firing — then back into our billets to clean 
the little pets, and after that, freedom until two o'clock. 
The afternoon periods were more or less a continuation 
of yesterday's, with a few new points added. 

"Con" is so busy these days that it's like pulling teeth 
to get him out of his smoky old hole of a kitchen. We 
dragged him out tonight and made him come with us to 
the one tobacco-shop of which the town boasts. We 
bought a French paper, some cigars and tobacco, and 
soon, outside of the door this scene was staged — "Randy" 
translating the news, with many conclusions jumped at, 
and many fiendishly bad translations (transliterations); 
"Con," with a big cigar occupying the left sector of his 
smile, and a growing crowd of Sammies around us listening 
to the news. On the way home, someone said: "Have 
you seen the precipice?" I hadn't, so we wandered in 
that direction. We entered the churchyard and turned 
to our left around the church, and there I got one of the 
surprises of my life. Along the left of the church there is 

74 



a path and a wall. At regular intervals along the wall, 
stand old trees, shading the pathway. On the other side 
of the wall there is nothing- — except space, infinities of it, 
stretching downward to the white road below, to the 
winding river beyond it, the quaint yellow-orange and 
green patches of garden on the farther hillsides, and off 
on the horizon an endless procession of violet hills that 
fade almost into the blue of the sky. When I heard the 
padre preach next morning, I knew from whence his 
inspiration came! As you continue around to the rear of 
the church, the wall leaves the precipice, and looking over 
it you see, a few feet below you, the neat little flower- 
garden which the padre probably tends himself. Phlox, 
forgetmenots, pansies, lilies and others, which to me are 
nothing but masses of beautiful color, combined to make 
the place a garden spot in very truth. We went to our 
billets feeling better for having seen it. 

Sunday, June 23rd 

We got back from a very interesting three hours on the 
range in time for church. I wanted to see the church, the 
people and the service, so I went with some of the boys 
and enjoyed it very much. It's always amusing to me 
to see people in obvious Sunday clothes — and believe me, 
this particular scene was delightful! The mingled pride 
and discomfort of the children in their unaccustomed 
grandeur was a rich bit of humor in itself. 

(I've been resting here in a corner of the "precipice 
walk" for an hour or so. My first interruption has just 
come. Two little girls, each perhaps four, have come to 
give me a flower. After some effort they've put it in my 
buttonhole, and now they're standing back to admire 
me — I mean it! Now they've gone again.) After dinner 
came the welcome news that we were free until ten-thirty 
— an unheard-of holiday. Some of us immediately decided 
to hike to a neighboring town — quite a large town, which, 
as one of my French friends expressed it, had been "beau- 
coup battu." After a walk of some five or six kilometers, 
we came upon the town — what there was of it. Street 
after street laid waste, with nothing but crumbling walls 
like brown stalagmites, and here and there a patched-up 

75 



shack, usually labeled "Cafe et Debit de 6omows." The 
streets, on the contrary, are perfect — curbs, gutters and 
roadway intact and clean — and from the spasmodic efforts 
one sees everywhere, the town is evidently starting, after 
all these long months, to rise from its stunned lethargy 
and go about its business. There is an old, old church 
near the outskirts of the town which had been a ruin for 
half a century or more. At the time of the bombardment, 
there were standing the vine-clad tower and at some dis- 
tance a fairly well-preserved nave. It was quite precious 
as a bit of ancient architecture, but to the Boche artillery 
it was just another building. As a result, the tower, now 
a stable and chicken coop, is scarred with big black shell- 
holes, and the nave, beneath its red-tiled patches, shows 
the way by which several big shells forced their uncere- 
monious entrance. It is almost weird to see this room, with 
its vaulted, groined roof, and morsels of brilliant decora- 
tion still intact, with a portrait of the Virgin over the 
high altar, and other treasures scattered around — now a 
carpenter shop and wagon-house, with chickens clucking 
about in the straw that covers the floor, and the sun 
streaking in through the ancient stained glass onto Ameri- 
can harvesting machines, grindstones and odds and ends 
of every sort and kind ! 

As we continued on up the street, we came to a little 
cafe. There we lost two members of our party. When 
we had had our vin blanc we were ready for more ruins. 
Not so "Sully" and Yarish; they preferred interiors — 
their own and that of the cafe. There was a pretty little 
barmaid there, who had lost two fingers, thanks to the 
playful sword of a Prussian guard. "Sully" got quite 
friendly with her, and, thanks to his handsome coun- 
tenance, got himself invited to dinner. When we returned 
four or five hours later, the boys were still there. Mean- 
while we had seen the rest of the town. The main street 
is in fairly good repair now, and there one sees a few people 
going about their business, others sitting in doorways, 
and blue-clad poilus standing about in groups, or half- 
hidden, with head and shoulders in some first-story win- 
dow, chatting with some demoiselle. 

76 



We passed a church which had been quite a landmark 
for some distance, and which almost seemed Spanish in 
style, its square tower surmounted by a red, pyramidal 
roof. When we drew near, we found it to be the parish 
church — a beautiful Gothic structure, but wrecked beyond 
repair, it would seem. 

The remnants of the tower have been sheltered from the 
rain by the red roof which had proved so deceptive. The 
approach to the front entrance is completely occupied by 
a Red Cross hut, where I obtained two aspirin tablets, 
thereby vanquishing the first headache I've had in France. 

You can't imagine the impression that new ruins make 
on me. It's entirely different from the effects of time; it 
seems as though all hell had suddenly been thrust into 
the middle of things, and then withdrawn as suddenly. 
There's no softening of shattered, broken lines — they're 
hard and cruel, like fresh wounds. The homes are dif- 
ferent; time has softened them, and repairs have taken 
much of that effect from them; but the churches, the big 
structures that have been struck, are still much as they 
were, and probably will remain so until the war ends. 

I noticed a sign "Rue du Chateau." Said I: "If there's 
such a street, there must be such a place;" so I inquired, 
and following directions we soon found ourselves at the 
entrance to the park, with the towering rear walls of the 
chateau just inside the fence. 

Schmitt, Clubley and I went bravely in, without asking 
permission, and soon were down in the depths of the 
place, groping around in the crooked arched passageways 
of the wine-cellars. I wonder how many casks of old 
Malvoisie have been tapped in those dark, cobwebby cor- 
ners? As we came around one curve, we noticed a beam 
of light. We continued on, and came to an arched en- 
trance. Inside, in one of the cellars, sat a group of poilus 
around a fire, munching their evening mess. We passed 
on, and mounted a circular stairway of stone. This 
brought us to the grand hallway — open to the sky, and 
covered with debris, but still majestic in its ruins. Oppo- 
site the doorway was a marble tablet — "Frangois de 

Due de Marechal de France . " The deletions were made, 

not by voluntary censorship, but by the bombardment! 

77 



As we wandered through the almost endless rooms, 
with their grass-grown floors and bits of half-buried brick 
and marble, I couldn't help rebuilding in my mind the 
scenes that might have happened before the storm broke 
— the beruffled and bepowdered grandees of long ago — 
the more sedate affairs of later days, and now — blue sky 
peeping through the gaping, vacant windows that break 




through four-foot stone walls; here the wreck of a huge 
gold frame that had once displayed some priceless por- 
trait; bits of delicate frescoes and borders still clinging to 
the plastered walls; shattered remnants of marble pillars, 
doorsteps and balusters; in one corner a draped tarpaulin, 
sheltering a dozen stored trench mortars; there, one 
unharmed window; here two thirds of a perfect groined 
arch, the rest in ruins on the ground; at the end of that 
dark passage, another room, sheltering no longer dukes, 
but horses. Sic transit gloria mundi! 

78 



We scrambled out of the chateau, across the bridge and 
along the bank, to find a place for Schmitty to go at his 
sketching. Clubley, too, had his sketch book out, and 
roamed here and there getting "bits" which will prove 
mighty interesting when the Great War is history. Mean- 
while, I wandered about in the park — a beautiful place, 
with every sort of tree and bush in the full glory of cen- 
turies of cultivation plus four years of uncultivated free- 
dom. The place has gained rather than lost in beauty by 
its freedom from the gardener's clippers. Here and there, 
through the trees, one gets a glimpse of the chateau itself, 
its ruined condition hardly noticeable in the distance. 

It was sunset when I returned. "Schmitty" had almost 
finished his sketch, and after a moment or two we once 
more climbed the ruined grand stairway to view the sun- 
set through a large window. That scene, Schmitt didn't — 
couldn't — paint; but I'll never forget it. 

When we got back 
to the main street, we 
dropped in a little res- 
taurant for a few eggs; 
and there in a window 
I saw something that 
started me philoso- 
phizing; — a pensive 
French maiden, prob- 
ably the proprietor's 
daughter, busily at 
work sewing — gifts for 
soldiers? No, a bit of 
fancy work! And it 
was right; there, in a 
demolished wreck of a 
city, what she needs 
most of all is to forget 
that twenty kilos away her countrymen are dying. The 
little New York butterfly, on the other hand, needs noth- 
ing so much as to realize that there is really a war going 
on Somewhere in France. She needs that realization a 
whole lot more than Sammy needs her socks! 

79 







Hereabouts, the French are very much our friends. On 
the way back from the town, we passed a cafe, and nothing 
would do but that we must stretch our arms through the 
window and shake hands with every Frenchman in there! 

At last, after a very full day, "home and to bed." 

Monday, June 24th 

Today, until five o'clock, has borne a very strong family 
resemblance to the other days of our stay here — except 
that this afternoon we revelled in the comfort of a shady 
orchard, where our mechanism classes were held. 

This evening, Sarge Ford and I went roaming around 
the town as usual. In the tobacco shop we discovered a 
picture postal which informed us that this -village also 
possesses a chateau — though in this case one very ancient, 
and now in ruins. A few words of inquiry took us off the 
main road, up a side street, and then up a narrow path 
between two houses. A moment's climb brought us to our 
destination. The chateau is a very confusing study, as the 
standing parts of the walls have been for the most part 
commandeered by later generations, to serve as piece de 
resistance for a half dozen or more farmhouses. The 
chapel, however, seemed less hidden beneath new con- 
struction than the rest, so we made for it. Madame found 
us in her garden, and very gladly offered to show us "her 
chateau" — it's pathetically like a child of hers, and she 
knows the history of every store. She took us into their 
living rooms — built by her grandfather in the ruins, and 
looking today very similar to the farmhouses around it. 
We climbed the old stone circular stairway, which dates 
from the thirteenth century; saw the stone arches, now 
bricked up, where the chapel windows had been ; saw rooms 
where Boche soldiers were billeted back in the gray days 
when the enemy were here; then nothing would do but we 
must go out and see the dungeon, where at the time of 
the bombardment, many of them took shelter. A stone 
dropped takes four seconds to strike the water; and a wisp 
of lighted paper shows the solid construction that has 
stood for five hundred years. 

Then Madame took us back up to her watch-tower — 
one of the old strongholds of the place, now grass-grown 

80 



and flower-dotted. There she has "watched the world go 
by," as she expressed it, all her life. She picked us each 
four flowers, and decked us with them. "That" she said, 
with the first one, "is the Croix de Guerre; that, the Medaille 
Militaire; that, the Legion d'Honneur; and that (pinning 
on the one last one) is from myself!" (I enclose the posies.) 
We climbed down the path, and came on a little estam- 
inet. In French, I inquired if they had anything to eat. 
The regretful negative response of the proprietor brought 
a poilu to my side. "Camarade, you are hungry?" Of 
course we were hungry. u Moi, je suis cuisinier. Venez 
avec moi." We went — followed him down crooked streets, 
into a barn, where eggs were found; then out, and off 
again to his quarters, where in a jiffy, our eggs were fried, 
and bread, coffee and pate were 
on the table. How much? Oh, 
deux francs pour chacun." We 
ate, thanks to his kindness; and 
then went back with him to 
the center of the town, where, 
right in the open street, a 
"movie" was in progress, the 
product of the military enter- 
tainment system that France 
maintains for her soldiers. We 
laughed over several comedies, 
and continued the entente cor- 
diale by means of our choco- 
late and Friend Poilu' s pea- 
nuts. Then we retired to bed, 
gladder than ever to be with 
the boys in horizon blue, in the 
land of the Fleur de Lis. 

Tuesday, June 25th 

After our day's work on the 
range and on manoeuvres, we returned to the billets. A 
corporal from one of the other American machine gun 
companies came in. "Say, I understand you've got a 
quartette." We had. "We're going to give a little 
blow-out tonight, for the French instructors — they've 

81 




been so decent to us. Will you help out?" Why, sure 
we would — not only with a quartette, but with piano-play- 
ing Pete and Clubley — premiere danseuse. (By the way, 
"Lovely" (that's his nickname) made that sketch show- 
ing himself as he appeared — a la orientate.) We needed 
a piano — and got one, though we had to go half way to 
the next town and drag it to the hall on a hay-wagon. 
You'd have died laughing to see me up on the wagon, 
playing ditties, while fourteen Sammies dragged the wagon, 
and the natives stared ! 

After a very haphazard and riotously appreciated soiree, 
ending with the Marseillaise and the Star-Spangled Ban- 
ner, the "talent," the instructors and the French officers 
adjourned to a side street, where flowed a keg of beer. 
Under its soothing influence, the whole crowd, regardless 
of uniform or language, sang and cheered and carried on 
in the most thrilling way you ever saw — Yankee "pep" 
and French effervescence set a-bubbling by the combined 
effects of comradeship and beer. 

After I had retired to my not-so-very-downy couch, and 
had slept a minute or two, Clubley came crawling across 
our sleeping forms, on his way to bed. The silence of the 
dark room was suddenly broken by Spencer's sleepy voice, 
shouting, "Say, if it's just the same to you, I'll pick my 
own nose!" Clubley, groping in the dark, had engaged 
poor Spencer's nasal decoration and nearly yanked it off! 

Wednesday, June 26th 

Today practically finished our course. We rejoin the 
company tomorrow night. Just as I was retiring, I was 
called down to the officers' quarters to play the piano for 
the party the American officers were giving the French — 
quite picturesque, me in that setting, eh? 

Thursday, June 27th 

Tonight we moved and got back with the company, 
arriving about ten-thirty. 

Friday, June 28th 

I'm closing this section of diary in order to get it in with 
tonight's lot of mail. 

82 



After our arrival last night in the deserted section of 
country where we found the rest of the company, we 
simply threw ourselves on the straw in our billets and 
went to sleep. This morning we went clown to a much- 
improved morning mess, and after that went through a 
light day's work — gas-drill, pistol instruction and the 
like. This place is nothing but a scattered group of houses 
— perhaps eight. There are no estaminets at all, but at 
intervals there appears on the road a baby carriage, 
wheeled by a little French damsel. The carriage is full of 
beer! — and pretty good beer, too, the fellows say. 

At last we've been issued summer caps, much like those 
our officers have worn all the time. Also new rolled leg- 
gins — only when they handed those out, P. R. C. was 
"out o' luck" — they were all gone when he got there. 
However, wars are not won by leggins! 

Our billet here is amusing. We're way up on the top of 
a hill; and that wasn't enough, but Old Dame Fate had to 
escort us up two ladders and a flight of cantankerous steps 
to get to our hay-loft. The result is that all day you 
hear theory "Going up, 'Spence'? Bring down my mess- 
kit, will ya?" or "Hey-y-y-y, Boucher! Bring down my 
belt and helmet when you come." 

When drills for the day ended, I wrote a few letters. 
Then came mess, and then — ah, uncounted joy! A bath, 
in a little stream about three degrees colder than lemon 
ice; and for companions, one bee, seven horseflies, seven 
regiments of mosquitoes and at least 987,000 gnats. How- 
ever, a liberal arm-swinging kept them at bay, and I 
finally got dressed again, and oh, boy! how good I felt. 
Then, garbed in my outer but minus my inner clothes, I 
went and protested to an old French grandmother that I 
simply had to have my two sets of "undies" washed before 
morning. Because I was a soldat americain qui savait 
causer en frangais, Madame agreed. Then I hit the hay, 
convinced that I'd done a good day's work. 

Where we are now, the Allied and Boche planes are fond 
of having little air-scraps, and not only caress each other 
with machine gun bullets, but make it necessary for the 
anti-aircraft guns to pelt them with shrapnel from the 

83 



ground. The law of gravity decrees that the lead and iron 
that is thus carelessly chucked about must eventually 
return to earth, falling, just as rain does, on the just and 
the unjust. Therefore, when an aero appears, there's a 
bugler on the job blowing "Attention." Then we all take 
cover under roofs and trees. Only one or two of the fel- 
lows have even seen a piece of the stuff. The wonder is 
where it all does fall. 

Saturday, June 29th 

We're going up soon, to take up some rear positions in 
the support lines of the front here. There is quite a lot of 
rejoicing among the fellows that we're going to see some- 
thing, even if it's only the back-door of the war — you can 
learn more up there in a day than you'd learn in a month 
behind the lines. 

Our sergeants have gone up today with our officers to 
look over the gun positions, so we have had quite an easy 
day of it, lying on the grass under the trees (not for com- 
fort, but for camouflage!), studying the mechanism of the 
Hotchkiss. 

(Afternoon) The word has gone round that we're to 
move tonight, so I'll have to roll the li'l old pack. I'll 
finish later. 

And now it's next morning, and we had some hike. 
Struck right up a huge hill from our billets, and then along 
on a very good road through a large wood. After a long 
walk, we reached the outskirts of a village, where we fell 
out on the roadside for over half an hour, awaiting orders. 
Finally we started off again, and no sooner were we started 
than we landed in the midst of an impenetrable forest — 
the thickest I have ever seen. Huge evergreens and other 
trees shut in the road all along on both sides, so that the 
Black Hole of Calcutta seemed light by comparison. To 
add to the spookiness of it, the left hand side of the road 
was on the edge of a steep incline, and we had to keep an 
interval of fifteen yards between platoons, despite the 
fact that you couldn't see your hand before your face! To 
keep from getting lost, our squad locked arms, and jogged 
along that way. Once in a while we'd crack our noses 
against the packs of the rank in front. Soon the order 

84 



came "Incline to the left!" and in a minute or two, we 
passed several big Allied guns, hidden tnere in the woods. 
In all the miles we walked, I don't think we were out of 
concealment half an hour. 

At last (it was one-twenty A. M.) we came to our desti- 
nation, the most picturesque spot you ever saw. Right in 
the midst of this impenetrable forest is a little village of 
summer-houses — some thatched, some trimmed with 
designs of rustic work — one with a little steeple and clock. 
They are all weather-beaten, and must have been here 
some years. There are other newer and less picturesque 
barracks about, but the little gems are very numerous. 
One group of them is used for officers' quarters. They're 
built around a little square called "Promenade de la Gaiete." 
The other paths all have names, and the houses themselves 
are decorated with fancy titles. Over it all rises this 
impenetrable forest, screening the whole from observation. 

"Con" and I were too tired to pitch our tent, so we just 
rolled up in our blankets and overcoats and slept — until 
one of the French guns near us let loose about six this 
morning and woke us up — the derned crab! And by that 
operation it celebrated the beginning of — 

Sunday, June 30th 

All morning we lounged around under the trees, wrote 
letters, stood in line at the Y. M. C. A. canteen for the 
cakes, Bull Durham and one cake of chocolate that are 
allowed each man. No, the "Bull" was not for me, but 
for a pal who was piggy-wiggy enough to want two! 

We spent the afternoon lazily, recovering from our long 
drag of the night before, and it wasn't until after dinner 
that our plans were announced. The first and third pla- 
toons are to leave tonight, to take up the gun positions, 
while we remain here for two days. Then we'll go up to 
relieve one platoon or the other, I don't know which. 
Hotchkiss guns were issued to all of us, and part of the 
day was spent in cleaning them. Then we watched the 
rest of the fellows start off after mess, with guns and 
packs, to take up their positions on the line — the boys of 
Company D at last "on their way" for fair, making good 
the promise of our favorite song. The rest of us were at 

85 



last assigned to barracks, and thus enabled to remove our 
goods and chattels from their rather-too-public location 
on the ground under a tree. Our barracks is very com- 
fortable indeed; there are two long rows of bunks, uphol- 
stered with fresh hemlock boughs, very provocative of 
slumber. The only guard we have to maintain here is a 
"gas-guard," who stands at one end of the hut listening 
for gas-alarms. If he hears a Klaxon horn sounding, he 
grabs his helmet and administers an unholy wallop to an 
empty shell-case (an old French 75) which serves the 
purpose of a bell. Fortunately, there was no need to hit 
the old thing, so we all slept peacefully till morning. 

Monday, July 1st 

Oh, the joys of those who are left behind, "resting"! 
Gun class, gas-drill, and detail, detail, detail! "Four men 
to collect wood." "Eight men to carry mess up to the 
gun teams." "Six men for this." "Four men for that"! 
Believe me. life back here in the reserves is not all roses! 
Of course, it's necessary work, and the reserves are the 
logical men to do it. I merely wanted to register the fact 
that your Sammy behind the lines "on rest" does his little 
chores, too! About four o'clock the news came. "There's 
a big bag of mail down at Battalion Headquarters. 
H — is bringing it up." But H — didn't; and the boys 
grouched. Then the news got round that someone else 
was bringing it, and the indicator swung round and once 
more pointed at Contentment. But alas for the slips! — 
once more Fate was against us, and the whole outfit placed 
a chip on its shoulder, just above the inevitable gas- 
mask, and made its grumbling way to bed. I merely men- 
tion this to emphasize how much letters mean to the boys 
over here. They're just like kids about them, and "How 
many dj'you get?" is the question of the day. It doesn't 
make any difference what they are — a love-letter, an ad 
or a tailor's bill — they all count the same, and you never 
see the happy "high man" admit that any of his are any- 
thing but sure-fire, gold-plated, bear-cat letters. But tell 
the home-folks this: The boys are busy. And in the 
National Army one goes to bed at dark, whether one's 
correspondence is up to date or not. So in measure of 

86 



value, a Sammy's hastily- scribbled post-card is worthy of 
a higher ranking than many a carefully-penned home let- 
ter turned out at a comfortable desk in an off hour or two. 
With which bit of philosophy we'll begin another day — ■ 

Tuesday, July 2nd 

This is the day we've been looking forward to for some 
moons — the day when, by Divisional order, all officers 
and men will wear their ''false faces" for four hours con- 
tinuously, meantime going about their regular duties. 

A gas-mask is your best friend, but after four hours in 
its loving embrace, you're more than glad to let its clinging 
amourousness sink into a mere platonic friendship. It 
tattoos your forehead with a neat red stripe; it most bites 
the end off your perfectly good nose, and it says in a voice 
that cannot be denied, "You cough, sneeze or snicker 
inside of me, and I'll get square with you." All in all, 
it takes considerable liberties with your peace of mind, 
even for a best friend! 

During the morning I conducted a class in the mech- 
anism of the Hotchkiss for the benefit of the Headquarter- 
men, who had not attended school. Then came mess — 
and after that, the good old false faces. The first hour we 
whiled away in the gentle pastime of stripping the gun; 
then we rested, and then — whoopee! In came the mail. 
Working under difficulties, it was distributed, and then 
the queer-looking masked figures wandered off, each to a 
tree-trunk, there to open and read letters from home, 
smiles hidden behind the expressionless masks with their 
big, staring eyes and snout-like noses. 

I got twenty-two letters, including all your missing 
ones, two from C, and others from S., B.'s big one, some 
from the office, and other odds and ends — the most totally 
satisfactory mail I've had yet! They kept me so com- 
pletely interested that I forgot the old mask was on till it 
was time to take it off! No sooner did we get our masks 
off than we were marched out to the pistol range, where 
with the other fellows, under the captain's instruction, we 
fired our automatics for the first time. The captain, by 
the way, is a dead shot. The same can't be said of me — 
yet! 

87 



I did, however, manage to get five of my seven shots 
inside the big ring, though the old "Gat" sure did kick! 
By this time (it was ten minutes of seven) we were sure 
the marching orders had been changed — but not so. It's 
a good sample of Army snap, this: in less than an hour 
from the time we got back to the barracks, we had supper, 
rolled our packs, filled our canteens and were off on our 
way to relieve the first platoon. 

Our way lay down a road that was at one time heavily 
shelled, and the broken, tangled maze of trunks and 
branches that still block the path made it rather heavy 
going for the boys with their packs and the machine guns, 
too. Hanging from various parts of me were these things: 
one pack; one gas-mask; one pair of field-glasses; one belt; 
one revolver; one canteen; and three neat, heavy, com- 
pact little tool-bags! Your little "Pete" looked very like 
a Christmas tree. 

We climbed into and out of shell-holes, passed off the 
road, and into a thicket of birches and second-growth 
beech, these also quite a bit cut up by shell-fire — at an 
earlier date, thank goodness. Our way was indicated by 
bits of white paper attached to trees and sticks here and 
there. 

At last we were halted by a sentry, gave the password, 
and were admitted to the trench. There we found our fel- 
lows, all ready to go back. I took the instructions for my 
gun from the corporal I was relieving, and then set about 
examining our quarters. 

We're holding what is known as the "second line." 
Nothing much happens here except when the enemy 
attacks and licks the first line, which is quite a distance 
away. As it's a very quiet sector, it's hardly like real 
war, but the scenery is genuine enough to suit anyone! 
Our trench is situated on the side of a hill, overlooking a 
valley and another hill beyond. Behind us are other 
trenches which seem to be held by some infantry reserves. 
The old ditch is about thirty yards long, and at each end 
is a dugout — one or two-room affair, with a little area at 
the rear, and a place for a kitchen beyond that. The dug- 
out is lined with wood, and has a ceiling of corrugated 



iron. Above this there is a solid layer of sandbags and 
stone perhaps four feet thick. We didn't much like the 
looks of that place, so we wandered down the trench to 
the other dugout. This was a veritable palace compared 
with the other; and so in that one we bunked. 

Wednesday, July 3rd 

Last night, our first in a trench, was interesting, to say 
the least. When the other platoon left us in command, 
the evening "stand-to" — nine-thirty to ten-thirty — was 
nearly over. Our gun-guards and our gas-guard were 
arranged, and the rest of us rolled into our bunks and 
instantly to sleep. 

At about quarter past twelve we were awakened by the 
cry "Gas!" Sullivan came scrambling through the pas- 
sage-way, dropped the two gas-curtains and landed in the 
dugout — and by the time he got there, we were all awake, 
masked, and waiting for something to happen. 

It turned out that no great amount of gas reached our 
■vicinity. The signals of gas are given by horns, which 
are presided over by sentries. When Mr. Sentry blows 
his horn, it's )f course heard and repeated by all the sen- 
tries for miles around. The result is that the alarm goes a 
good deal further — and quicker— than the gas. Sullivan 
went out to see what he could see, and came crawling and 
swearing back in a minute — our first casualty. No, not 
from the gas, but from a neatly twisted ankle. Soon after, 
the excitement subsided, and we all went to sleep again — 
but "Uncle Pete" got only an hour or so, because his trick of 
guard came at two-thirty. When I came out of the dug- 
out, there was a misty moon in the sky, and thrown in 
black relief against it a ragged line of shell-torn pines, 
rising above the rough silhouette of the trench-top. There 
was hardly a sound to be heard — an occasional sentry's 
single rifle-shot — the dull quiver of a far-distant gun — 
now and then "b-r-r-r-p!" — a machine gun in the distance 
opening fire for a minute or so; then silence again. At 
three-thirty came "stand-to;" all the crew (there are nine 
of us here) is awakened, and remains on the alert for an 
hour. At about four it began to grow light, and Conboy 
went down the embankment to our gun emplacement to 

89 



bring in our gun. I didn't noticefhis return, and was 
leaning against the trench-wall talking to^Clubley^when 
suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a silent, 
motionless figure, in uniform and helmet, on the far end 

of our dugout roof. 
"Oh, that's Con," I 
whispered. "No/ Con' 
just passed going the 
other way," said "Love- 
ly." Suddenly, "It's the 
captain !" he said. "Halt 
him!" "I can't," I 
whispered, "He's halted 
already." So there I 
stood, with myhandon 
my holster, waiting for 
my captain to move. At 
last he did, and I drew 
the old Colt and halted 
him — rather badly, I 
fear, then the challenge 
was completed quite 
neatly. But it was a 
great joke on me all 
right, and the captain 
got a very good little 
snicker out of it. Of 
course, I should have 
challenged him while he 
stood there, but in my 
bright lexicon there was a gap. After some questioning, 
the captain departed, and soon after I went back to bed. 

With the coming of morning, we've had a better chance 
to examine our bedroom. It has a very "lived-in" air; it 
looks as if a very fastidious gun-team had spent quite a 
while here. The log ceiling is perhaps seven feet from the 
floor. There are three entrances, one of which leads to our 
trench, one in the opposite direction, and one out onto 
the hillside, where there is an artillery emplacement, now 
vacant. Each entrance is closed by two gas-blankets. 

90 




bf CUbit.y 



These are merely snug-fitting blanket curtains, kept con- 
stantly damp, and reinforced by wooden crosspieces. 
These are opened by day, and all but one are dropped at 
night. The furnishings consist of two tiers of bunks 
accommodating eight or ten, and fitted with very com- 
fortable straw mattresses. Across the little room is a 
wall desk, of rough boards, and above it half a dozen 
shelves. It's big enough for two, and Sarge Ford and I 
are both busily writing at it now, by the light of two 
candles. The supports and the ceiling are of huge eight or 
ten inch logs, and, of course, above that there's a heavy 
layer of earth. There's a very good stove, which we 
haven't yet lighted, but which promises well for tonight. 
There's a miz-maze of tangled wires on the ceiling, that 
speaks of past signal equipment which had its part in the 
"big doings" which once took place here. The rest of the 
equipment is nails — nails everywhere, on which every- 
thing is hung. It's the first place I've struck since I've 
been in the army where there are enough nails — but in 
this place you can scrape your helmet against the wall in 
the dark — and there'll be a nail for it to hang on! 

This morning our breakfast was brought up to us in 
"dixies" — (big camp kettles)' — and the coffee in a patent 
container which kept it steaming hot. It tasted mighty 
good, too, believe me! 

The morning has been without event; I've spent it here 
at the desk; and now it's nearly time for our grub to appear 
on the scene again. 

{Later) A little delay in the arrival of our lunch was 
caused by the presence overhead of a couple of Boche 
planes. All messengers are supposed to "duck" when 
planes are sighted, so that observers will not be able to 
get any clue from their presence. For the same reason, 
we were told, on arriving here, to leave everything about 
the trench — old boxes, tin cans, bits of wood — exactly as 
they were when we came. This prevents enemy avions 
from getting any new information on their eagle-eyed 
camera plates. 

When our mess arrived, there came a few cakes of 
chocolate, purchased in the next town by a thoughtful 

91 



messenger and resold to us — also a very few candles, 
which, with mess and mattresses, are the things which 
make life worth living out here. 

This afternoon, I made a "range card" for my gun, 
showing the various landmarks in our field of fire, with 
the approximate ranges of each. Then I snoozed until 
evening mess, and again afterwards until "stand-to," 
at nine thirty. By the way, that's a feature of the life 
out here that makes it unique. You get your sleep when 
you can — and your opportunities for a nap, while numer- 
ous, are so broken up that day and night no longer seem 
to have their old significance. This effect is heightened 
by the pitch-dark, candle-lit dugout, the aspect of which 
never changes — 'cept when the candles get used up! 

When we started evening "stand-to," the captain appear- 
ed and gave us a few instructions. Then he trudged off 
again, leaving our nine alone in the trench. And such a 
polyglot mixture, that nine! I don't think there could be a 
more perfect epitome of the National Army than we — nor 
could the things that the army is doing for American boys 
be more plainly portrayed. There in the trench we stood 
— Sergt. Ford, of Larchmont Manor — slight, fine-featured, 
somewhat delicate in appearance — a stock-broker by pro- 
fession; Spalding — window-trimmer in Bedell's Buffalo 
store, and every inch a gentleman; big, handsome, loud- 
voiced Sullivan, whose heart is as big as his voice, and who 
is as capable as he is lazy; "Baron" Bean, ex-candy- 
maker, ex-knight of the road, and incidentally ex-corporal, 
who can and does sleep more than any two other men in 
the company — who sends home to his mother ten dollars 
of his salary every month, in addition to his allotment, 
"because he knows she needs it;" Higgins, ex-brakeman 
and bunkie of the afore-mentioned Sullivan, whose blue- 
fire swearing-matches and vituperative scraps are the 
constant and sure sign that everything is all right; Ham- 
mond, sailor and world tramp, who can tell yarns of the 
North River and the Zulu Sea with equal ease, and who, 
in consequence of his migratory life, is at home anywhere; 
Clubley — "Lovely," as we call him, son of an English 
editorial writer, handsome as a young god, and apparently 

92 



coddled to death — who left motion -pictures for the army, 
and startled Camp Upton with his silk pajamas, his poma- 
tum and the large number of his Packard-owning friends, 
to whom the luxuries of life were necessities, and the 
realities of life an undreamed dream; Conboy — good old 
faithful "Con," balance-wheel of the outfit, and chosen 
bunkie of yours truly; "Con," oldest of us all, and with a 
wife at home; with a lifeful of experiences behind him, 
and a stock of rich humor which he invariably reserves 
for the psychological moment when it saves the day — 
"Con," who has been farmer, butcher, conductor, cook, 
and a hundred other things, including the role of medical 
student in the University of Pennsylvania; and your hum- 
ble servant — have you strength left after reading that 
endless sentence, to picture those nine men standing in a 
trench at the French battle-front, discussing religion, 
fatalism and the effect of the war on world-character? 

Yet there we stood, a composite of experience and 
inexperience, of knowledge and ignorance, of sheltered 
theory and hard-learned fact; and because of the things 
we've all been through together, we argued as equals — 
were equals in very truth, with a tacit realization that no 
one of us but could claim mastery in some one phase of 
knowledge, and utter ignorance in others. 

— And isn't that doing more for us than the mere win- 
ning of a vital war? 

When the clock in the brave little church near by struck 
the half-hour, we turned in — and I slept until I was awak- 
ened by Clubley, to serve my trick at guard, I woke to 
find that I had slept while all the dogs of war in the shape 
of a huge French barrage, had been humming, whistling 
and whirring over our heads. Clubley was laughing — and 
as I looked at him, I saw two pictures: "Lovely," in white 
flannels and a white silk shirt, sipping lemonade on the 
wicker-furnished porch of the Binghamton Country Club, 
with a Pall Mall in his amber cigarette-holder and a group 
of admiring femininity in the offing, and Pte. Clubley, 
sitting on the edge of a damp trench, with a drizzling rain 
wetting his slicker and clots of French clay accumulating 
on his boots, laughing at a French barrage! Independence 

93 



Day, 1917 — Independence Day, 1918 — that's what a war 
can do to a man ! 

My watch was more quiet — I don't know what the 
barrage did to "Fritz," but he has certainly left us severely 
alone. Maybe he's mending his wire and cooking up plans. 
We'll see. 

Thursday, July 4th 

I'm over in the unused dugout writing this, so as not to 
disturb the fellows who are using our desk. It's very much 
quieter here than it is where you are — in fact, I haven't 
heard so much as a rifle-shot all morning. 

The fellows who brought up our breakfast brought also a 
supply of our best little cheer-provokers — letters from 
home. The camp is much quieter than usual this morning. 
Most of us are writing or reading our letters. "Hig" is 
down in what would be No Man's Land if the Boche ad- 
vanced a few miles, taking a bath in a shell-hole. Pic- 
turesque? Well — ! 

And now I must send this before it becomes a book. 

Friday, July 5th 

Another lazy day — hardly a sound from over the hills. 
Perhaps the Boche are planning new deviltries — but it's 
much more probable that they're washing clothes, reading 
magazines and writing letters, pretty much as we are. It's 
a curious thing of contrasts, this trench warfare; the air 
will be full of the screech of bullets and the noise of burst- 
ing shells; the gas alarm will throw a sector into momen- 
tary confusion. Then it all stops; and before long, the 
birds are singing, the bees humming — and those con- 
founded flies biting, just as though nothing had happened. 
I suppose when we are promoted to the front line, things 
will be different, but if they are having a war over the hill 
there, they're keeping it mighty quiet! 

"Con" has been busily clipping the unruly locks of two 
or three of the fellows this afternoon; that master-liaison- 
man, Laner, has brought us many slabs of chocolate, and 
rumors galore; and when Sammy can munch chocolate 
and listen to rumors, with his leggins off, shoes unlaced, 

94 



and only three buttons buttoned, you can put him down 
as a contented fighting man ! 

Saturday, July 6th 

Three times last night we had to put on our old masks — 
and three times it was unnecessary. The Klaxon signal 
from the trenches is relayed all over the map, and the 
effective radius of a gas shell is only about a hundred 
yards. I hope they find some alarm system pretty soon 
that can be turned off. This one might be carried right 
on up to the North Sea! It's like knocking down a row of 
tin soldiers by assaulting the leader-man with a playful 
thumb. 

We left our four-day home at about o'clock, and 

many were the regrets. It sounds funny to be regretting 
your departure from a resideDce that consisted of two 
burrows and a ditch, but it's a fact — we haven't lived such 
a comfortable existence since we left the States! 

We didn't get back to camp until after ten, but never- 
theless, there was Capt. Gillam in his little rustic house, 
waiting to pay us! We all welcomed our francs with a joy 
that was almost abandon, and then went through our 
regular monthly pastime of haDding most of it out in small 
doses, to bunkies who had favored us during the month. 
Then we went off to our bunks, but found, to our sorrow, 
that the bunks we'd been inhabiting before we went to 
the trenches had been taken by others, so we had to go off, 
like "Orphant Annie," to another house, which was filled 
with infantrymen. We had two more fool gas alarms dur- 
ing the night — but a night spent among a bunch of infan- 
try is hectic and restless enough without a gas alarm! 
Every time we "meet up" with the infantry, we're glad 
we're with the — "picked men," the good old M. G.'s. 

Sunday, July 7th 

Thanks to the varied interruptions of the night, "Con" 
and I slept until eight. And you should have seen us 
hustle! — "Con" to church, and your little "Pete" to the 
field kitchen, where, though it was an hour late, he man- 
aged to rustle a cup of coffee, some bread and syrup — 
which was all I wanted, anyhow. Then I lazed around 

95 



till church-time, and then sat under the trees while Chap- 
lain Urge conducted a simple little service. He has a great 
deal of influence over the fellows because of his personality, 
and incidentally because he doesn't "preach." 

After mess we wandered down the road about two miles, 

to the little town of . The civilian population has been 

ordered to leave there in a day or so, as the place is needed 
for military purposes. The town is a bit battered up, but 
not by any means a wreck. This probably makes the 
order even harder on the departing civilians than it would 
be if they were deserting a sinking ship. There's one place, 
though, where one sees no tears — that's the Y. M. C. A., 
one of the best we've seen in France, built inside the shell 
of a big, rambling old stone house. Of course, it's all very 
rough, but the mere sight of writing tables, a bit of a can- 
teen where chocolate, smokes and the like are to be had, 
and a piano, makes quite an impression after a few weeks 
of camp, trenches and lonely billets. One thing that I 
saw there seemed to me like the breaking of the last link 
separating me from the old life — a copy of the June Amer- 
ican, with "Pete's," the ad-man's, last two P&L spring 
ads in it! "Pete," the trooper, looking at his other self — 
it was funny. 

We knew we were going to be late for mess, so we sup- 
plied ourselves with a little cheese, some salmon, and some 
biscuits, and sat under the trees near camp to eat them — 
"Con," Clubley and I. For the first time in some moons, 
I looked at my knife with a "seeing eye." It's certainly 
been a good friend of mine! — but now — gee! The hole- 
maker snapped off; the can-opener bent double; the blade 
possessed of an edge like a saw; only the screwdriver 
retains its health! When we went to bed that night, we 
heard that next night we were to get us hence and visit 
the well-known "front-line." 

Monday, July 8th 

B — , how's this for a way to celebrate your birthday? At 
about o'clock when Clubley and Spalding and I re- 
turned from a reg'lar clean-up day down at the spring, the 
word came that we had to go up to the front to look over 

96 



our gun positions — Sergt. Ford, Lieut. Guter, Sergt. Barn- 
hart, Spalding and I. 

Our road took us through the ruined, deserted town of 

, a monument to this war's ferocity as perfect as any 

we've yet seen. A sharp turn and a short walk along a 
camouflaged road brought us to our first position, which 

was in a . At this point we saw a Boche sausage balloon 

in the distance, and therefore approached our second place 
by a roundabout course, through what in peace-times 
would be called a miz-maze, but which in war is just a 
trench system, thus, so our walk was rather lengthy! The 



amusing part of it is that the trenches, though , must 

look very . Finally we reached , and there found 

our second position, around which the squad which our fel- 
lows will relieve had built a neat little camp — hardly 

one's idea of a "front-line" position, is it? But there are 
all kinds of war in this little rumpus over here — open as 
well as the trench variety. 

From there we struck right through the woods, . 

At last, after quite a lengthy scramble, we came out on 
the side of a hill, overlooking a marshy valley, and there, 
under the trees, was the position assigned to my squad. 
The other squad of my section was located near us, in an 
even more attractive spot — and the fellows whom we are 
to relieve gave us the welcome news that the Boche hasn't 
made it necessary for them to put on their masks or fire a 

shot since they've been here days. Truly, this must 

be, as a French poilu said the other day, a "bon front!" 
Our return trip was made by another route, which led 
entirely through the thick woods — speaking of which, you 
can't imagine what things are held secret in the depths of 
these forests! If "Jerry's" peering eye could only pierce 
that foliage — but it can't! 

We were tired when we got back to camp, and so I lazed 
around until about six, rolled the old pack once more, 
gathered the clan together, swore when I found that Sarge 
"Mac" had docked my squad of one of its best men, Ken- 
yon; swore less when I found that he had been replaced by 

97 



George Wood, a bully fellow and one of our best liaison 
men. We packed the gun wagons, loaded the ammunition 
carts, and started off, after surmounting the dozen-and- 
one little obstacles that always hang around like glooms, 
to slow things up. 

It was nearly when the silent column and the rattling 

carts at last reached the unloading point. Maybe you 

think it's fun to hike till , then unload a heavy gun and 

tripod, tramp with them through a spooky, tortuous, 
swampy wood path, mount the gun in your emplacement, 

and then start standing guard and executing . Maybe 

it is fun — but our boys couldn't quite see the joke! 

Tuesday, July 9th 

My precious two hours of sleep was worth its weight in 
gold; but that was all I got. I was awakened by a French 
corporal, who! had come from bis captain with orders for 
our two guns. They were to be moved a mere kilo — but 

our gun was lost to us — the new emplacement is in a 

dugout — or, if not exactly a dugout, a covered emplace- 
ment in a hillside. 

Like the Arabs, we once more folded our tents — only 
the four gunners, mind you; the rest of our two squads 
stayed behind to "hold the fort" and watch over our sur- 
plus belongings. We're going to shoot a little tonight, if 
all goes well, and then return to our original positions. 

Our new home is in a cave-like dugout in the hillside, 
used originally as an artillery emplacement, but long 
abandoned, and now inhabited only by rats, snails — and 
us! We still overlook the same valley, but our field of fire 

now includes the village of , a town of some pretensions 

which has been sadly battered by the moving tides of 
battle, and which is now entirely evacuated by civilians, 
and used only as a military base. Our residence has a dirt 
floor, and a ceiling just high enough to clear our heads. 
Our roof, which is composed of logs, railroad track, rocks 
and dirt, is at least six feet thick, and overgrown with 
grass on top. Facing out over the valley is our fire open- 
ing — -a big window between the logs, through which a 
broad field of fire can be obtained. There is the valley — be- 
yond that the wooded hill and beyond that — "Jerry." We 

98 



enter by an opening near the back of the place. It seems 
to be pretty steady, as despite the numerous bullet and 
shrapnel scars on the logs, it shows no signs of caving in. 
It's damp, and the rats and snails seem to resent our intru- 
sion, but still it might be a whole lot worse. Our company 
kitchen is located in one of the houses in the village, and 
thither, three times a day, a couple of our "spare num- 
bers" — the extra men on our gun team — go with pots and 
pails to bring up our mess. 

During the night we have , and it's amusing to see 

how hard a time the fellows have keeping awake. They're 
mighty good about it, though, and try every scheme imagi- 
nable — tell stories, sing songs (from which you may judge 
that we're not quite out in No Man's Land!) and conduct 
a roll-call in the pitch-black darkness every minute or two. 
At last the end comes, and the fellows all roll over and 

snore — all, that is, except the luckless guards, who 

have to sit there blinking at the stars for hou^s longer. 

Sad to relate, however, our first shot at Jerry has been 
postponed. The weather was not propitious, so our friend 
the French corporal said; and now his company is being 
relieved by another, while he goes off "on rest" — so we 
may not pop off the old gun at all. 

Wednesday, July 10th 

We've spent today in waiting for something to happen 
— which is one of the three favorite occupations here in 
the lines. The other two are eating (a lot) and sleeping 
(a little — oh, a very little!). Nothing chronicle-able oc- 
curred until evening, when our poilu friend superintended 
the moving of huge boxes of ammunition to our dug- 
outs. I was amused to see one of the signs that a soldier 
is going to emerge from the Camp Upton chrysalis of out- 
worn tradition that has encased one of our sergeants. We 

managed to scare up men, in addition to our sergeant 

and the French corporal. That made two men to each 
case, with one left over for a second trip — because tradition 
says that a sergeant must not work. But there are times 
and places for bugle calls, white collars, "squads right" — 
and the tradition that sergeants shall resemble the lilies of 
the field. When the awkward pause came, and no one 

99 



stepped up to the last case, Friend Poilu grins at me, re- 
marks in French, "I'll carry this one myself," and grab- 
bing up the huge thing, throws it up on his shoulder. It 
stayed there perhaps three seconds, and then our Sarge 
saw the point; and soon the case was swinging along the 
road, suspended on a long stick that rested each end on a 
shoulder — one of khaki, the other of horizon blue. That 
night our friend left, and the little rumpus once more did 
not appear. We've now just about given up hope of 
getting our gun into action during this visit to the lines. 
However, here's hoping for better luck next time. 

Thursday, July 11th 

After a grand, snoozy morning, I decided to step down 

to , to see what I could see. Instead of taking the 

main road, I walked along our hillside, stepping over 
occasional barbed wire, and walking around old shell- 
holes, and others not so old; reaching at last a little hidden 
path. Following this way, I passed stone gateways and 
steps that lead into forgotten gardens, which now flourish 
in half-wild luxuriance, although the homes they once 
adjoined have long since disappeared, the tall grass kindly 
covering what remnants the artillery left. At the end of 
this path there is a gateway that leads into another gar- 
den — the outermost of the town proper. Here, under the 
rank growth of weeds, nestled berries, poppies, phlox, and 
other bits of color, all, of course, very stunted and unkempt 
but still persistent. From this point on the buildings are 
standing, though much battered, of course, both by the 
original bombardments of the early days, and by the 
occasional shells which still wander in. 

A door led me through a barn, and out into a grass- 
grown cut de sac, which led up to the main street. Every- 
where was silence — I've dubbed it for myself, The Silent 
City. One gets the impression that things just suddenly 
ceased, as they did in Pompeii — it's almost gruesome! Of 
course, the roads have been cleared, and dugouts in the 
cellars have been built for use as billets; the main street 
is more active, with the commandant's headquarters in 
the Hotel de Ville, its shattered windows filled with sand- 
bags, and great barricades of stone around its walls; the 

100 



billets of a few French and American soldiers, a French 
canteen, and a field dressing station, scattered here and 
there between ruined and deserted buildings. 

We stopped at the dressing station to get some dope 
for "Con's" cold; and before long were invited to their 
"little bit o' heaven," as they call it, up in one of the big 
second-floor rooms of the house. Up the bare stairway we 
clattered — and when we got to the top, we almost col- 
lapsed! There, inside the door, was "Paradise enow" — 
rugs on the floor, luxuriously upholstered chairs, lace cur- 
tains at the windows, draperies and pictures on the walls, 
a lace tablecloth on the dining-room table, and upon it 
neat bowls, dishes and a vase of roses, a piano in the cor- 
ner, two huge gold-framed mirrors on the, walls, and a 
medical buck private half-buried in a huge chair reading 
a newspaper! All this with the first-line trenches ten 
minutes' walk away! All of it, of course, was flotsam — 
salvaged from the surrounding ruins — but it was certainly 
a vision of delight to us. We stayed a few minutes, played 
the piano a bit, and then returned to our hole in the ground, 
to our regular round of guard, "stand-to," and sleep. 

Friday, July 12th 

I forgot two important events in my chronicle of yes- 
terday — our visit to the pottery, the temporary departure 
of Sergt. Ford, and my consequent accession to the 
very doubtful honor of Acting Section Sergeant. 

The pottery is on the far end of the town, beyond the 
railroad — which, by the way, is all rusted and overgrown 
with grass; and before "Jerry" and "Jean" started pum- 
melling each other, it must have been a very imposing 
place. Except for two of the big chimneys, it's not much 
damaged — and when we went in to explore it, we found 
out very quickly why we had seen our friends, the medics 
and the poilus of the \icinity, eating their army mess on 
crockery fit for a king. Room after room is full of china, 
finished, half-finished, cracked and broken — some good as 
new; and we availed ourselves of one or two small pieces, 
which will find their way to you in the mail before long, if 
I'm lucky. When we got home, we found that Sarge Ford 
was ordered off to anti-aircraft school, which fact gave 

101 



"Uncle Pete" his momentous, even if only momentary, 
promotion. Now it's "Randy" who orders the K. P.'s and 
the guard to their daily task, who fills out the daily report, 
with the news of all the shots fired, aeroplanes sighted, 
rockets, balloons and other machinery of war that comes 
within sight or earshot during each day and night; who 
gets the messages and arranges the details — some job! 

Saturday, July 13th 

When our morning snooze, our afternoon pistol practice 
and our other daily duties were done, the effects of our 
\isit to the medics' Paradise began to show themselves. 
Someone looked around our shack and remarked in a 
matter-of-fact way, "This is rotten." We agreed. Some- 
one else said, "Well — ," and the tone of voice was con- 
structive. Two minutes later, and we were all at work — 
one hustling to brush the dirt off the floor, another fixing 
hooks, assembling our stock of reading material, and jug- 
gling up a table — made of four big cartridge boxes and the 
wooden door which by night serves "Con" and myself as 
a bed, the benches, two plants and four small ammunition 
boxes; a bunch of flowers and four lighted candles made 
our centerpiece, and a small stock of preserves, sardines 
and nuts made of our evening mess a banquet indeed! 

"Con" and I have discovered a new way of keeping 
awake when we're on guard together. We pick a subject 
— The War, Capital vs. Labor, Advertising — almost any- 
thing on which we can disagree— and it seems hardly a 
minute before we're waking up our relief! 

Sunday, July 14th 

Funny how life in the front line flattens everything 
down to an even monotony! We woke up this morning at 
about eight, and it wasn't until nearly noon that we dis- 
covered that besides being Sunday (which was quite a 
discovery in itself) — it was also the 14th — the glorious 
Quatorze Juillet — Bastille Day. Back in London, Paris and 
New York, parades, speeches, flying flags and countless 
other festivities mark the day as a red-letter event. But 
here, it's just another day. 

102 



I went to our Number Eleven position this morning, 
with our liaison man, to talk over a few things with Sarge 
Barnhart. As we walked through the woods, some Ger- 
man shells started to whistle over the treetops. We 
stopped, listened to see where they were falling, and then 
continued, as one does here, without giving them any fur- 
ther attention. When we got back to our own dugout at 
noon, though, we found that some hadn't been so lucky. 
One of our gun positions, some two or three kilos from 
ours, was struck by a shell, and as a result Co. D has 
registered its first casualty. We're glad to hear, though, 
that Rex's wound is not serious, and that after he gets 
patched up he'll be able to join us again, as good as new, 
and richer by one sporty wound-stripe and an enviable 
calling-list of pretty Red Cross nurses ! 

The event of the afternoon was the return of our good 
pal, Corp. Francis, from Anti-Aviation Machine Gun 
School. Our section is now nearly full, a fact which en- 
ables us to guard the camp adequately, and still get a 
little sleep — which I am about to do. 

Monday, July 15th 

A couple of letters for me and none for anyone else — so 
much for having English relatives and daily home-letters. 

Our day was enlivened by the antics of one Vincent, 
who before being a soldier, had graduated as circus man, 
harmonica player, jig artist and Knight of the Road. He 
has trod the ties and ridden the rails from every nook 
and corner of the States to every other — so you canimagine 
that he's quite a vaudeville show all by himself! 

Tuesday, July 16th 

As I write this, I'm sitting in our dugout, looking out 
of the window at the brilliant East. I've been on guard 
since four o'clock, and I've been watching the dawn. 
When I came out, there was a faint bit of pale yellow just 
between the hilltop and the clouds; but in a moment it 
began to change, the clouds became a tawny copper-color, 
shading into tortoiseshell, and outlined in slate drab 
against a constantly changing sky — now pale lemon, and 
now changing to a transparent greenish-blue. Three stars 

103 



persisted, and I decided, like the little boy, to find out 
where they went when they went out. So I watched and 
watched— until finally an aeroplane came over, and I had 
to visit my intelligence reoort inside; there a Paris New 
York Herald tempted me, and behold, when I again 
looked at my sky, it was day — my stars had fooled me 
and skipped — and still I don't know where they went. 
Never mind — I'll catch 'em another day. 

I'm perched on an ammunition box in our shack, with 
our gun for a back-rest and my knees for a desk. On the 

floor around me are the fellows of 'em — sleeping. 

"Con" has been bothered by the flies, and has been tossing 
around quite a bit. Just now he opened one eye, stared at 
me, murmured, "'Lo, Pete," and rolled over. The rest 
of the boys might be sandbags — they haven't moved a 
muscle. That's the way you sleep out here, only a little 
while, but full-speed for Slumberland every time. 

And now that days have elapsed, I find at last time 

enough to chronicle some of our moves during the hectic 
times that followed. 

At about dusk we received orders to move — this time 
to a position not so very far from the one we had had — 
but nevertheless, it meant packing up the endless odds 
and ends that go with a squad and a gun, and mooching 
over several hundred yards to the new location. We are 
now in a dugout that is as remarkable as any I have yet 
seen — carved out of the solid rock, and with a tunnel con- 
necting it to a wooden shack fully twenty yards away. 
At the entrance is a conical structure of masonry which is 
either the tomb of some favorite French artilleryman, or 
the fanciful dream of some French soldier-mason with 
more time than brains. From this you may judge, how- 
ever, that this is some dugout ! 

Francis and I took out the range-finder (a remarkable 
instrument, by the way, which costs as much as a Ford, 
can be carried on the back, and faithfully records for the 
initiated the distance to any object ten thousand yards 
distant or less), and, I made up a rough range-card for our 
new position. Then we turned in for the night (which in 
the army means for an hour at a time!). 

104 



Wednesday, July 17th 

During my watch from four to six this morning I sat 
in front of our dugout drawing up a finished drawn-to- 
scale range card. A little celluloid three-inch ruler, the 
string of my gas-mask, and the safety-pin that holds most 
of my clothes up, were my tools, and with them I managed 
to make circles, straight lines and curves to my heart's 
content and the captain's satisfaction. 

During the morning, the captain came around again, 
this time to tell us that once more our position would be 
changed — this time, however, to a location nearly a mile 
away. The li'l old gun carts are coming up at dark to 
help us, so I hope that our fourth move will be completed 
without any great struggle. 

(Later) It was accomplished — but it was quite a neat 
little job, at that. I sent my liaison man, Wood, down 

through the Silent City to where our headquarters are, 

to lead the wagons out to our position. Then when our 
packs were fully rolled and our gun equipment piled ready 
to load, we waited — waited while the sun sank and the 
moon rose, and it got darker by the minute. Finally, 
though, the rattle of our carts sounded through the night, 
and soon we had them packed and were following our 
shadows through the midnight, moonlit streets of the 
Silent City, doubly soundless now, — and on along the 
white road, hung with its camouflaged hemlock branches, 
until we reached a break in the barrier. There, in a shell- 
hole, perhaps from the road, was our gun position and 

there, huddled together, with overcoats and slickers for 
covering, we alternately slept and stood guard till morning. 

Thursday, July 18th 

This morning we moved our packs down the road about 

yards, to a house where one of our squads is already 

quartered. Their gun is , and unlike ours, is blessed 

with a trench and a dugout. But nevertheless, right in 
front of the door is a neat little round hole — the shell-hole 
made by the "obus" that wounded Rex Thornton ! How- 
ever, when we saw the room assigned to us, we worried 
precious little about shells! A real bed, a table, a couple 

105 



of chairs, and a real, dry, second-floor floor, on which one 
could sleep snail-less, mud-less, and comparatively rat- 
less — in fact, in luxury! And sleep we did, a large part of 
the day, though I did find time to make a range-card for 
our new position and do a few other military chores. 

During the day the order came through that tonight 
only would be on duty at our gun during the night, ex- 
cept during the hours of "stand-to." This makes it a little 

for the men, but I hate to think of what might happen 

to those out there yards away, if a shell should 

drop in on them and put them on the bum. I know; I'll send 
someone out there if we get a bombardment. We prob- 
ably won't, though. They say of this front that it's held 
by a one-legged German on a bicycle, who runs up and 
down during the night shooting up rockets. Then there's 
a "circus artillery," too, which plays one-night stands at 
different points, and then moves on. Their yarns are 
good, but it must be that once in awhile the old Hun's 
wife serves him his coffee cold, or something, because there 
are nights when he kicks up quite a respectable fuss! 

Friday, July 19th 

Today marks, I hope, an epoch in the life of the old 
Second Platoon. Because today, after many months of 
"running itself," the outfit is at last to have an officer — 
and an advertising man at that! So now the Third Squad 
is certainly to be classed as an example of the power of 
advertising, with its corporal, lieutenant and captain all 
knights of the pen as well as the sword ! 

We spent most of the day cleaning ammunition — and I 
never dreamed that the stuff could be so filthy: damp- 
ness, mould, grease, dust — I hate to think what would 
happen to a gun that had nothing but that stuff to shoot 
Huns with! 

Once more today we indulged in the Wonderful Bed 
(you'd laugh if you could see it! I think it probably 
belonged to little Fleurette, aged twelve or so, but now 
there are never less than two, and usually three of the little 
old squad intertwined on the torn canvas mattress, from 
which protrude various and sundry wisps of straw. Let's 

106 



leave them there snoozing, and get that report finished up). 
— And nothing else chronicle-able has occurred except 
the news that tomorrow night we move. 

Saturday, July 20th 

Today has been a day of checking up, gathering together 
the loose ends that are bound to scatter themselves about 
— guns, ammunition, T-bases, tools, sand-bags, personal 
belongings — a more motley collection you never saw! 
Then, too, there occurred a little incident that if it could 
be pictured back home, would give a thrill of pleasure to a 
whole lot of good-hearted Westerners. At about four 

o'clock I was over at Platoon Headquarters — the camp 

I spoke of. Just as I was leaving, in came Liaison Black 
with a huge burlap bag. "There!" he said, "Salt Lake 
City Tribune smokes, Red Cross gum and chocolate." 
With true soldierly impartiality the dainties were divided, 
down to the very last cigarette, and I went over through 
the crooked trench to our position, where the precious 
eats and smokes were once more "divvied up." Next to 
mail, there's nothing more welcome than "issues," as we 
call 'em! At dark, our limbers came up to be packed. I 
had to detail poor "Con" to the job of horse-leader, and 
he didn't like it at all! Then when they were all packed, 
came the hardest job of all — waiting— waiting for the 
relieving company to arrive. They got lost a bit, and 
when they showed up, the dawn was almost ready to 
break. That meant hustle, because transports are "ver- 
boten" on dangerous roads after dawn, so tired as we were, 

with little sleep for days and none at all for twelve 

hours, we "snapped into it," and got back into a wooded 

section before light. That still left us a good hours' 

hike before we got back to our "rest billets" — the same 
forsaken little group of cottages where we rejoined the 
company before we left for the "supports" early this 
month. This time, however, things were a lot better. 
We have a very comfy barn for a billet, and the hostess — 
she can't do enough for us! A little old woman, her ex- 
soldier husband, a gargon and a jeune fille, the latter per- 
haps twenty and very pretty. Neat almost to a fault, 
"amiable" almost to excess — she's the apple of our eye! 

107 



Sunday, July 21st 

The first eight hours of our stay here we spent in the 
straw — dead to the world. But Sammy's rest is quickly 
taken — not so his eats. They require real brain effort, 
not to mention the expenditure of most of his salary. So 
we planned a feast, with plates, a table and a menu! I'm 
enclosing mine, with the signature of the participants. It 
was a ge-lorious fiesta, and by the barest luck, who should 
happen along but the only missing member of our quar- 
tette — Poole. So for the first time since we left the Tin- 
hut Camp, the strains of "My Honey" and "Skinimerink" 
went floating out on the balmy (?) evening air of France, 
to the astonishment of our hostesses and our own immense 
satisfaction ! 

Then we slept. Did we sleep? Oh, boy! 

Monday, July 22nd 

Do you want a nice broad grin? Oui? Eh, bien! What 
do you think was the first thing we cleaned when we came 
back to earth and the daily routine of wide-awake land 
today? Us? Nix! The limbers! We took 'em down to 
the stream and soused them off good and clean; then came 
the guns, then the pistols, and after that, those of the 
Sammies who were not too tired or too anxious to go to 
town, took a crack at themselves. 

"Fran," "Con," "Spence" and I decided not to go to 
town until tomorrow, so when all our chores were done, 
we once more retired to our "downy" couch — all but one 
of us. "Spence," the unconquerable epicure, was not to be 
seen, until about six, when he came into the little kitchen 
which we have tacitly adopted as our living room — loaded 
to the gunwales with packages, and dangling before our 
eyes a bill for nearly thirty francs. We could have kissed 
the man. 

The result was that our second banquet, though less 
bedecked with menus and formalities than the first, was 
an affair that kings and colonels might envy — with canned 
sausages, picture-book French pickles, jam, dates, sweet 
biscuits and, of course, the inevitable eggs, chips and 
salade. And the "makings" of another affair still remain, 

108 



"cache" by Madame until we're in the mood to feast 
again. 

After the dinner, "Con" and I hiked down the road to 
R , only to find that it is sacred to another army divi- 
sion, and that we are not invited there. Heigh-ho! When 
we went home, we found that some of the fellows had been 
in the place all day without a word of comment. I guess 
the M. P.'s don't like our faces! 

Tuesday, July 23rd 

Kids out of school! That was us today. We went off 

''on pass" to X , quite a town, and our Divisional 

Headquarters. By running our heads off, we managed to 
hop onto a big U. S. Truck, thereby saving ourselves a hike; 
and the morning we spent in roaming the shops, the 
Y. M. C. A.'s and the other soldiers' foster-homes. Then 
we dined; and after that "continued the march" to our 
hearts' (and our palates') content. We met "Gib" Elliott 
and Corp. Schwartz, standing in the middle of whatever 
is French for "Main Street," "Gib" murmuring, "Gee, 
isn't she wonderful?" Disappearing down the street was a 
pretty little Y. M. C. A. girl. But after some time, we 
managed to convince "Gib" that he was "out o' luck," 
and escorted him to dinner at the Hotel de la Gare. (I can 
mention :its name, because there's one in every town in 
France!). 

When we thought of the homeward trip, almost like 
magic came the news that there was a bus in which one 
might ride luxuriously. Upon investigation at the Gare, 
we found that the bus was only for soldiers when the 
"Voyageurs" had been cared for; but we found "something 
just as good" — a huge green racing car, in which the mail 
goes to some of the villages near us. Six of us piled in 
where four belonged, and we whizzed home in nine min- 
utes. The most joyous incident of our day (more joyous 
even than when we waved our passes at the helpless 
M. P.'s) was when we passed some of the other boys in 
our company on the road, and were accorded the punc- 
tilious salute that is given all autos, because they're so 
costly there must be an officer inside! 

109 



Wednesday, July 24th 

We spent the morning in our regular round of machine 
gun instruction (by the way, ere I get myself entangled 
in a miz-maze of errors, I'm going to explain why they're 
liable to occur. At the table here, there is "Fran/' who is 
writing, talking, singing; "Spen," writing and asking for 
suggestions; "Scout" Kearns, writing and continually 
interrupting himself for one reason or another; outside, 
the regular bench-load of rumor-gatherers is at its evening 
pastime; in the road is a column of infantry passing, every 
third rank or so being possessed of a noisy or at least a 
conversational doughboy — and their comments, too, are 
floating in on the evening air. To add to all that, Hughes 
and Higgins have just come in, to see if they can pick up 
a card game to christen a new deck. In the next room, the 
jeunefille and her mother are talking; and I, poor helpless 
wool-gathering male, am trying to write! With which 
apologia pro nobis, I continue, and then, in the afternoon, 
we did something new! A long walk through roads, fields 
and little paths brought us to a place where there were 
two or three lines of trenches, and a line of emplacements. 
The ground before us was all pitted with rough, jagged 
holes that overlapped and intermingled, and looked like a 
No Man's Land for fair. Here we were instructed in 
a gentle little nihilistic art of bomb throwing — first with 
round stones, and later with the real article. I struck my 
hand against the side of the trench and dropped my first 
stone. "Uncle Peter," I thought "there may be sermons in 
stones, but you can thank your stars there's no powder in 
'em !" However, my real bombs blew up successfully, at the 
proper time and place. One stands in the trench, grasps 
the bomb in one hand, strikes the cap against some hard 
surface and then throws it "over the top," and as near as 
possible to some unwary Boche. Five seconds later there 
is a heavy boom! — a column of smoke and dirt! — and 
Mr. Bomb's life-work is finished. Expert bombers hold 
them after striking the cap until a second or two have 
elapsed; but we swatted them and heaved them over 
without any great lapse of time! 



110 



Today Lieut. Peabody broached to me the subject 
of a show. As usual, I got enthusiastic and offered to 
work, so the evening was spent in writing, humming and 
trying out ditties, picking casts and trying to figure out 
how to give a show, sans stage, sans script, and even sans 
time for rehearsal! Even poor old "Shaky" himself didn't 
have such a problem as that wished on him! But at any 
rate, we have a good idea. The scene is to show a camp 
kitchen and a picket line, and the characters will be selected 
from the company curios which seem somehow as a gen- 
eral rule to gravitate either into the kitchen or the stables 
of a military outfit. The rest of the show is worked around 
that — and then we're planning a little olio of specialties — 
tumbling, singing, and another one of "Lovely" Clubley's 
female impersonations. I hope it'll go off right, but time 
sure is short ! 

Thursday, July 25th 

We went out to the range for the day, to fire some more 
of the prehistoric ammunition with which we've been 
burdened. The lumbering old mess-kitchen followed us 
out and we lunched out in the fields, with a panorama of 
hills, fields and little red specks of towns all around us. 
The "theatrical men" (yes, the captain did grin a little 
when he announced it) were allowed to shoot early, so 
we got a little chance to rehearse. Things today have 
progressed to the hopeless state of utter confusion that I 
know presages a fine performance! We're going to have 
a "horse" on the picket line, composed of two men and a 
few dozen sandbags; and he in himself is an undertaking. 
Then there are the characters to be trained, costumed and 
taught their cues, and the songs to be fixed up. For the 
first time in weeks, I feel busy — hence happy! 

Friday, July 26th 

We trekked to the range again today, but thanks to the 
wisdom of some of the roaming members of our company 
we went this time by a short-cut across the fields and over 
stepping-stones, thereby saving kilos, tempers and Gov- 
ernment shoe-leather — incidentally some forty minutes of 
time. Once more the Thespians were honored, and when 

111 



we got back, held our dress rehearsal — without the piano, 
however. That necessary instrument came wandering in 
just before show-time — borrowed from the Salvation 
Army hut in a neighboring town. When we got it in place, 
we boldly conducted a rehearsal, with nothing between us 
and our gathering audience except a curtain made out of 
fifteen or sixteen shelter-halves buttoned together! 

I've sent ybu a rough programme of the show, and a 
copy of the ditties. I hope to send you a more presentable 
copy, which is not yet quite ready. Suffice it to say, 
though, that the show was a success! "Con," as Sprague, 
was a marvel, and the other fellows all made hits. The 
most tickled, of course, were the folks in the audience who 
were "ragged" — and we saw to it that there were lots of 
those! 

"Fran" and I were so wearied from the effects of our 
two-night impresarial efforts, that we retired pretty early, 
to dream of everything in the world but war ! 

Saturday, July 27th 

As I have perhaps said before, a corporal's is the hard- 
est, meanest and least appreciated job in the army. He 
gets all the responsibility, all the blame and all the work — 
he's like a fat man — nobody loves him. (Gosh — wouldn't 
it be awful to be a fat corporal? — but then, such a condi- 
tion couldn't exist — the worry of the job would wear down 
a hippo to skin and bone inside of a week!). All of which 
is apropos of my morning's job — checking up on the 
equipment of my squad — seeing that "Scout" Kearns gets 
the spoon he's lacked for a month, and that Fox has enough 
shoelaces, and that "Hig," who has gobbled up his "iron 
rations," is supplied with new ones. Oh, it's sweet — this 
job! When I get back to hiring printers and things again, 
I'm going to put in my ad "National Army Ex-Corporals, 
10% extra pay." They'll be worth it, after the experience 
they're getting over here. This afternoon we went to the 
erstwhile Forbidden City — now as free as air, and crowded 
with our boys — and found it by far the most attractive 
little town we've struck. It was in German hands for 
three weeks early in the war, and was quite a bit shot up 
at the time, but it has been for the most part rebuilt, and 

112 



seems more "alive-and-kicking" than any place we've 
been in. There are three or four factories with smoke 
coming out of their chimneys, and the stores have all 
kinds of things in them — sufficient, in fact, to make us all 
gloriously "broke." The Y. M. C. A. canteen is very well 
supplied, and we went out with chocolate, biscuits and 
peaches stuffing our pockets to the bursting point. Cheese, 
nuts and other goodies from the epiceries and boulangeries 
nearby made the prospect even more pleasing — and when 
we got home, Mile. Louise had found eggs, so we feasted 
again, 'most as well as one could wish to back home! I'll 
bet the letters that were scribbled on this table tonight 
were the rosiest that have come out of our four Watermans 
in some time! I know mine were! Then along came the 
papers, with news of big doings at the noisy Big Front — 
and we all retired with visions of a great big transport, 
tying up to a Hoboken dock, at some earlier date than 
1942. However, nous verrons ce que nous verrons — n'est 
ce pas? 

Sunday, July 28th 

Apropos of nothing, this morning we asked our host 
(who returns on foot each week-end from the neighboring 
town where he works) if there was any place in the vicinity 
where baths were to be had. After a lengthy conference 
in speed-limit colloquial French, Monsieur turned from the 
rest of the family and drew us a map — and the cavalcade 
was soon under way — "Fran," "Spen," "Con" and I, all 
with our raincoats bulging with towels, clean clothes and 
soap, splashing through the puddles on our way to town — 
we must have been a funny sight! 

Following instructions, we turned to the left and then 
to the right, crossed the little bridge and found at last the 
little house we were seeking — most properly labeled 
"Bains." We entered, waited while Madame prepared 
the rooms, and then were ushered into the most desirable 
spot in all France, to our eyes at least! The most gigantic, 
ee-enormous porcelain tubs I ever saw, just chock-full of 
steaming water! "Con" and I smiled, first out of pure 
joy — and second, a broader one, as we thought of the hu- 
mor of it — that a bath should ever be classed as a luxury! 

113 



I honestly believe, though, that if the four of us had 
been offered our choice of grand opera tickets or bath 
tickets, the four of us would have voted as a unit for the 
dip! 

As we paraded our cleanliness down the main street a 
few minutes later, we picked up Clubley, Schmitt and 
Swinnerton, who were hot in pursuit of a meal. We 
joined forces, and sought out a little haunt presided over 
by two very charming Frenchwomen, and their fascinating 
woolly dog, Mouton. We ate a most disgraceful number of 
oeufs and pommes de terre and then had the indecent 
audacity to wait while Madame cooked more! 

Of course, we had to be tempted by the cheeses, the 
biscuits, the nuts and other dainties that smiled at us 
through the shop windows. So we came back to camp 
just about "broke" once more. I think I've called your 
attention to the inexplicably accurate knowledge of our 
needs that the U. S. Mail seems to possess. We arrived 
home in imminent danger of spending a dull evening, and 
behold! There, waiting for me, were newspapers, a Red 
Book, Every Week and Life — enough for all of us. 
Hence, we spent the rest of the evening in the pursuit of 
letters — a pastime in which we have had little enough 
practice during the last few months. After that, I in- 
dulged in another letter- writing party, and went to bed 
quite late. Rumors about our next move are plentiful — 
although, of course, most of them are ridiculous. However, 
with all these stories, the truth must lie somewhere. 

Monday, July 29th 

My ears are ringing merrily tonight — and when I whis- 
tle, it has a funny "edge" on it that is more familiar than 
it once was. That's what comes of spending the day 
kneeling by the side of a Hotchkiss while it spits bullets 
at a target. Today was an "off day" for my gun — it 
acquired all sorts of ailments, and finally was condemned 
as a menace to society; that means that I'll get a nice new 
gun, all sweet and greasy — full of sand, caked oil and grit. 
That means a gun-cleaning party — how "Foxy" and the 
"Scout," "Con," "Hig" and Hughes will enjoy that! 

114 



We lost our old belts this morning — the dear old infan- 
try belts, in whose ample cartridge-pockets, from time 
immemorial, the boys have kept their treasures. Where 
will they now keep their Bull Durham, matches, choco- 
late, cigarettes and knick-knacks? Goodness knows; cer- 
tainly there's no place for 'em in these natty, spic-and- 
span revolver belts. Oh, well — they were good friends 
while we had 'em! 

This evening has been eventless, except for a most 
unexpected windfall — a postal army check for five dollars 
from the P&L Benevolent Association! Once more the 
all-seeing eye of Postmaster-General Burleson must have 
been looking at me as I fingered my last half franc and 
wondered how the squad and I were going to get through 
the month on that! Thanks to that, and a timely loan 
from Lieut. Ethridge, I was enabled to send two of 
my boys to town a little better than broke, anyhow! 

Tuesday, July 30th 

A day of smiles and sighs. We spent the morning in 
physical exercises, close-order drill and gas-mask drill, and 
you'd laugh to see the fellows, after all these months, 
executing "Right-/ace/", "Hand-s'Zitte/" and the rest of the 
school of the soldier in the middle of an unfrequented road 
in France! We weren't so very bad, at that! 

After lunch we studied the Hotchkiss, and laughed our 
heads off over a new list of names that has just been given 
us — the third list of parts we've memorized thus far. 
That was laugh number two. 

Then a providential ball-game made the afternoon a 
quarter holiday, and "Fran" and I hiked off to the town, 
going this time by a new route, over the little funny bridge 
and down through the factory section. As we drew near 
the center of town, I spotted a sign that started me off 
hot-foot across the street. That sign read "Imprimerie." 
A disciple of Poor Richard hidden here amoDg all these 
followers of Mars! 

I stepped down two stone steps, walked across what had 
evidently once been a concrete floor, but which no longer 
had any covering, the bent and twisted ironwork showing 
where a skylight had once been. Passing on, I came into 

115 



the shop — a fine, light little room, boasting one cylinder 
press and a jobber, and so spic-and-span in its neatness 
that one almost hesitated to enter. 

Monsieur, in his long black coat-apron, and with his 
heavy brown beard, looked more like a research chemist 
than a typo, but soon I found that he was just as much a 
good fellow as the knights of the composing stick back in 
old New York. 

After a little talk, he began to tell his story, and to my 
intense surprise, I found that he had spent thirty-three 
months in service, and had then been retired only when a 
wound in the head and the loss of his right foot had ren- 
dered him unfit for further service. He had fought in my 
Silent City when it rang with the shouts of the maddened 
and the cries of the dying. He had held the very factory 
where I picked up my bits of crockery. There his captain 
and sixteen of his comrades had fallen, but he with others 
held on, and in the end won out. 

That was early in the war. For thirty months after 
that he fought on — and then came "the shell with his 
name on it" — the hospital — the long convalescence, and 
finally the return to his little shop — what was left of it. 
The Huns had burned it to the ground when they spent 
their ghoulish three weeks in the town, away back in the 
gray, early days of the war. With his own hands he raised 
a roof over the ruins, painted it, finished it up, borrowed 
the funds to buy his small equipment, and once more 
started out in life — but this time there are no boys at his 
presses, no men at his type-cases. He's alone — and in his 
loneliness made me think of If— 

"Or see the things you gave your life to, broken, 
And stoop, and build them up with worn-out tools." 

And he smiles! That's the French of it. I can under- 
stand now what I found it so difficult to grasp before I 
came over — how France has been able to keep her head 
while the demon has been tearing at her very throat. It's 
because that priceless temperament makes her smile — 
smile, yes, even when the end seems to have come. That's 
France! 

116 



Wednesday, July 3 1st 

Birthdays out here aren't so very different from any 
other day, it seems. It felt good, though, when Clubley 
came up and clapped me on the back to offer me the com- 
pliments of the day. He happened to know. 

Soon after breakfast I started over to the town in which 
our battalion headquarters are located — and where, inci- 
dentally, all our medical service is obtained. It seems 
like a long trip for fly-bite ointment — but French flies are 
different! It was a beautiful walk through the woods, and 
you can't imagine the shock of seeing all of a sudden on a 
tree, the sign "Zone Danger euse" — indicating that from 
that point on, things might happen. Not that anything 
did — on the contrary, the country-folk go on plowing and 
reaping, in blithe disregard of the fact that gas shells, 
bombs and great obus can be showered on their heads, if 
the Hun feels so inclined — and from the appearance of 
the smiling countryside, it's very seldom that he does feel 
the spirit moving him. 

I got my ointment, visited the Y. M. C. A., dropped in 
at headquarters, to find my friend Nolan just as usual, 
behind his old typewriter; pumped him dry of rumors 
about payday, our new destination, new mail, and all the 
other things the "boys" perennially want to know about. 
Nolan didn't know a great deal, but thanks to some others 
around the office, I gathered up enough rumors to pay my 
admission back into camp, at least ! Then I stepped for a 
moment into the Salvation Army hut, presided over by 
an American girl perhaps thirty-five years old, with lots of 
charm, and a neat Southern accent. Every time I go 
into a Salvation Army shack, I'm impressed with the fact 
that they've gotten very close indeed to the men and their 
needs — and back in the States, they're not getting one 
tenth the credit they deserve! I got home in time for 
mess, and then went through a few formations — machine 
gun study, gas drill and the rest. "Fran" and I walked 
down to town and bought a few things to eat (which we 
found no difficulty in getting rid of!), after which the 
evening again became a literary one, followed by a very 
early retirement. 

117 . 



Thursday, August 1st 

The morning formations were speeded up a bit today, 
so that we could all go over after mess to a neighboring 
camp, there to undergo one more new military experience 
— the process of being "de-loused." Your Sammy goes to 
the de-lousing station as the farmer went to his Saturday 
bath — "whether he needed it or not" — and it isn't such a 
fearsome process at that! You arrive at the building, and 
immediately three luckless, poor fellows of your bunch are 
detailed to chop firewood, and some others to pump water. 
Then you all undress, tie up your clothing in a bundle, 
throw it to the attendant, and pass on like Diana, to the 
bath. The bath consists of a one-minute trickle of hot 
water, followed by a two-minute trickle of cold. Much 
refreshed, you pass on to the next room, where you stand 
in line to claim your clothing. Eventually it comes back 
to you, de-loused, it is true, but oh — steaming, damp, 
smelling like a Chinese laundry, and wrinkled — oh! boy! 
criss-cross creases, folds many and manifold — such a mess 
you never saw! Then some lucky ones "traded in" old 
coats and trousers for new ones, and the day's work was 
done. 

We broke up into groups on the way home, and soon 
started experimenting with the route. As different groups 
disagreed, the groups got smaller, and soon I found myself 
quite as lost as I've ever been, and with only two com- 
panions. While we discussed whether this or that was 
north, far off in the distance I saw two horsemen, in whom 
I recognized our captain and Lieut. Ethridge. We 
scrambled through the underbrush and reached their little 
road, and Sherlocked our way home following their horses' 
hoof-prints. And we got there in less time than the right 
road requires. Speaking of luck — 

After we had eaten our mess, we spent the rest of the 
evening in thrashing out the rumors of the day — "The 
officers' baggage is labeled (Italy) (Paris) (United States)" 
according to which rumorist you follow: "We're going to 
(Chateau Thierry) (Italy) (Russia) (Albania) (Ukraine) 
(U. S. A.) (Philippine Islands)" — and half a dozen more: 
"We're going to be paid in American money." "We're 

118 



going to turn in our gas-masks and helmets." "We're 
going to have a pleasant surprise." "We're going to a 
seaport to study a new gun," and dozens more of the 
same. Perhaps the censor will censoriously censor the 
above — but if a Hun can get any information from our 
rumors, he's cleverer than we are! I wouldn't be sur- 
prised to see us go right up to some new front a few miles 
from where we are now — but there's no telling. Here in 
the war zone, where all other feminine creatures are ver- 
boten, Dame Rumor holds full sway ! 

Friday, August 2nd 

Today's story can be briefly told — a day at the range 
is much the same whenever one indulges in it — except 
that today, with our new gun, we didn't have a single 
stoppage! Tonight we have drawn rations and gathered 
a new crop of gossip — and tomorrow, some time, we move! 

Saturday, August 3rd 

After our regular Saturday morning inspection, we 
packed up the Umbers, which glistened most beautifully 
in their new coats of 0. D. paint — then hied us back to 
the billets, there to be greeted with the joyful news of 
imminent pay! — and Corp. "Pete," for the first time in 
months, about to be the gainer by the monthly financial 
adjustment that takes place after "pay-call" has sounded. 
N. B. — We got francs, not dollars! Of course, in such a 
financially overloaded condition, with a journey of delight- 
ful indefiniteness ahead of us, nothing would do but that 
"Fran," "Spen" and I must go to town. We did — and 
came back with jam, cakes, and oh, uncounted and un- 
looked-for joy! — fresh tomatoes to put in our salad! The 
supper was a feast indeed — the hike then started. 

The first night's destination was a cinch — 'merely a two- 
and-a-half-mile jaunt up the road and across the river, to 
the outskirts of a little town which should be greatly com- 
plimented at being considered large enough to have out- 
skirts at all! We pitched tents — and about eight seconds 
after our ninth and last tent-peg went in, came the deluge ! 
It rained in torrents — the flashes that we had taken for 
artillery turned out to be lightning, and it was certainly 

119 



a test of the li'l old tents. Ours stood, and at last reports 
(when my snooze became a full-grown snore) was still 
keeping the rain off our noses, toeses and clotheses! 





Ik iRlfe 

s5?i$4dfc.. 3 'tis 'tl5 







Sunday, August 4th 

We rose fairly early, and wandered off toward "town"' — 
(we always call it "town" if it boasts a cafe, a church and 
an epicerie). "Con" went to church, while I continued to 
do the sights. After a look at the main street, I decided 



120 



to return to my first love, a paper factory built directly 
over our friend the stream, and run by its power. It 
boasted a mill-race, a very picturesque tower, and a little 
bridge on which "yours truly" ensconced himself to indulge 
in a lonely reverie. That's a little sketch of it, as it looked 
from my vantage point on the edge of the bridge. As 
Kipling persists in saying, "It was really much prettier 
than this picture, but my editor won't let me use colors." 

In the afternoon, we hiked over to a neighboring town, 
to dine. But because we had to get back to camp by six, 
and the "hour of serving meals" doesn't come until five- 
thirty, we had to indulge in a little camouflage to dodge 
the much-feared-by-the-natives "Police Frangais." 

Instead of dining in the restaurant, we mounted into 
our hostess' hay-loft, and there, on an improvised table, 
we dined sumptuously, our banquet including half of a 
cake! — for which we paid nine francs!! Thus does one 
pay the piper in a sugarless land. When we got back to 
camp, marching orders had not yet come, so we amused 
ourselves admiring the very beautiful scenery — the island 
formed where river meets canal — and in watching the 
antics of a Frenchman who was fishing in a rather unique 
manner, quite effective, and absolutely contrary to law, 
and therefore, like most crime, exciting. He would draw 
from his pockets several bombs, and throw them in the 
stream, and after the explosion, countless small boys 
would swarm out through the water to capture the stunned 
fish. 

From this sport we were called to sling packs and hike, 
this time in a new formation. Instead of marching in 
regular column, we grouped ourselves around and behind 
our gun carts, each squad with its own gun. The result 
was that when our horse walked, we walked; but when he 
galloped to catch up with the procession, we and our packs 
had to run! To add to the joys of the night, it poured 
rain not once but three times, and a company in front of 
us led us several kilos astray. This was one of the longest, 
about the hardest, and quite the most disagreeable hike 
we've yet experienced, and when, at about one-thirty 
A. M., we landed in the ruined town of X , we were 

121 



fagged out. Imagine our joy when we found ourselves 
billeted for the night in a huge barn, its hay-loft floor 
covered with about three feet of clean, new straw! 

Monday, August 5th 

Not for many a long month have I slept until eleven 
o'clock — but this time I did — and I didn't begrudge my 
lost breakfast, I can tell you! Just down the street from 
our billet was the church — what was left of it. We entered 
the door, and looked on a scene of ruin as complete as any 
I've yet beheld — broken images lying on the grass-grown 
earth in a hopeless tangle of splintered wood, discolored 
chips of marble and shattered tile. As we continued on 
past the altar to the anteroom, a sign, roughly scrawled by 
some American soldier, caught my eye. "Don't write 
your name on this wall. This is the house of GOD." As 
we went out, something made me look toward what had 
been the altar, and instinctively I bowed my head. 

All of a sudden, the word came round that we were to 
leave at two-thirty in the afternoon instead of after dark, 
and that our destination had been changed. The news 
proved true, and three o'clock found us once more on the 
broad highway, dragging one tired foot after the other, 
and running along behind our little cart whenever our 
raw-boned old nag chose to catch up a bit. By nine o'clock 
we were once more encamped in a field, some ten kilos 
from our final destination. In telling you of our hikes, I 
fear that perhaps I don't convey exactly the correct pic- 
ture. Here it is in a bit more graphic form; in the last 
twenty-four hours we have, in effect, hiked from South 
Orange to New York and back, every man carrying on his 
back a pack that weighs upwards of eighty pounds! 

Tuesday, August 6th 

At six next morning we were awakened, to roll out" packs 
and complete the journey to our entraining point. When 
we got within a kilo of the town, off we switched into the 
woods and pitched tents again! 

At about noon, word came that we might go in and see 
the town. It's not a very big place, but you've heard of it. 
Except for a dam across the river and a large building 

122 



that have been bombed by enemy planes, the war has 
not affected it at all, but, 'of course, the streets are full of 
soldiers and the stores with tempting things for the "mili- 
taire." But in all that town there was only one thing for 
us. There in a little shop on the square, was a sign "Ice 
Cream." Outside and in, a khaki-clad mob of officers 
and men were demanding an entrance. After waiting an 
hour, and expending a franc, we were awarded a spoonful 
of raspberry ice! We questioned a kindly French officer 
as to where one might "manger Men." He led us across 
the street and pointed out a little restaurant a few doors 
down the nearest side-street. Although it was not yet the 
hour, we went in, hoping to arrange a little dinner. But 
it was not to be. Madame came up to us — "Non, non, 
rien!" I looked at her, and soon discovered why. Her 
gown was black, but then, most of them are. Her face 
told the story — her face and the dozen newly written, 
black-bordered letters in her hand. The world is acclaim- 
ing a great Allied victory — and here in a little French 
town, a woman pays its cost. 

We dined, as one does, by visiting first the butcher, then 
the epicerie and then the restaurateur — but we dined well, 
nevertheless. 

Then the crowd rambled back to camp, through the 
streets of the town, stopping on the way to visit the really 
beautiful old church, and to buy a supply of maps in a 
nearby shop. That's one of the prime amusements of a 
trip, you know, to read the names on the railroad sta- 
tions, and by this means trace our route. Each junction 
is the signal for great excitement and "Are we going to 
the left or right?'"' is the question of the hour. 

Wednesday, August 7th 

At about two o'clock we broke camp, rolled our packs 
by candle-light and got ready to move. It was certainly 
a picture to see the fights flickering all through the wood, 
and the black figures here and there. A short hike took 
us to the station, and then came the job of loading in the 
dark — G. S. wagon, limbers, kitchen, gun-carts and men. 
This time our quarters were very close indeed — twenty- 
four men {and packs !) in one of the funny little freight cars 

123 



that we use over here. On the platform under a tarpaulin, 
in the pitch-black darkness,were two Y.M.C. A. girls serv- 
ing cocoa, and two men selling cigarettes, chocolate and 
cigars. That's the kind of service the boys appreciate! 

At about four we went to sleep, and some time while we 
were in the land of dreams the cavalcade, for all the world 
like a circus train, moved off. 

All day we moved, studied maps and slept, and admired 
the scenery — particularly the signs that one sees every- 
where of the bountiful harvest that the soldiers and their 
families are gathering this year. 

At one point on our journey we went through a section 
of country which at one time was the scene of considerable 
fighting. The whole countryside is dotted with crosses — ■ 
here a single one, there a group — some along the roadside, 
others in the midst of wheatfields and gardens, but all 
carefully fenced and tended. Far off on the hillside you 
can see them, silhouetted against the sky, for miles around 
— a perpetual monument to War and Hate. 

When it got too dark to see plainly, we once more 
resumed our sardine arrangement, like this: 
and we visited a very bumpy, flat-wheeled sort 
of dreamland, until suddenly at some unearthly 
hour of the early morning, we were awakened and 
sent up to the front of the train to roll our wagons off the 
flat-cars, unload our horses and supplies — then back to the 
car to fix up our packs. Many were the things unprintable 
that were said about the army, the war, and most important 
because most imminent — the coming hike. We tightened 
up our straps and swore — tied on our overcoats and swore — 
climbed out of the cars and swore some more. Then hap- 
pened the Most Remarkable Hike in History (it deserves 
all the capitals I can award it)! We did "Squads right," 
marched down the platform to the end of our train, across 
the tracks, and into a barrack! Mirabile dictu, and also 
Holy Cat! It was so wonderful that the crowding, the 
dirt floor and the dampness were completely ignored! 

Thursday, August 8th 

This morning we found ourselves in a little town — I 
can't tell you where, but it doesn't much matter anyhow, 

124 




because no one seems to know why we're here or how long 
we'll be here. Suffice it that I've shaved, eaten a most 
enormous dinner, thanks once more to the butcher, the 
baker and the candlestick maker, and that I'm now in an 
orchard under an apple-tree, alternately writing and watch- 
ing the trains go by. I suspect, though, that when I go 
back to the barracks now, I'll find some new news to keep 
us on the qui vive once more. 

— But no news appeared, so after a quiet, eventless 
evening, we went to bed. 

Friday, August 9th 

Next morning — we cleaned up our gun equipment, 
which, thanks to the precautionary oil-bath we gave it, 
was in very good shape. We did have to indulge in a few 
quiet grins at the expense of the less provident, whose 
guns required every sort of first-aid, from kerosene to 
emery-paper. You can bet that our little Hotchkiss got 
another oil-bath before we left her! In the afternoon we 
started out in search of our customary feast. But some- 
how, things weren't right; the farmers had sold all their 
eggs, the butcher was closed, the epicerie cleaned out, and 
nobody had any potatoes, raw or cooked, to sell. To cap 
the climax, the baker, who yesterday sold us a bit of bread 
for a few sous and a wise wink in lieu of a bread-card, was 
away today, and his little daughter was quite obdurate. 

As a sort of last resort, I asked a woman standing by, 
if there wasn't some place where we might eat. She smiled, 
and led us around the corner, behind the church, up an 
alley, in a side door, through a dark passage, up a crooked 
stair, through a second tunnel, and at last, into her two- 
room home, where we dined — on luscious new potatoes, 
cider, three kinds of canned fish, and! — I braved the tor- 
tuous passages, visited the baker's daughter once more, 
and found there a poilu buying bread for his chickens at 
home. Between us we persuaded her that the section of 
loaf that she had left after selling him his exact two hun- 
dred grammes was not much use to her — so we got our 
bread, too! 

When we got back to camp, the news we've been awaiting 
was there — tomorrow our gun teams with their equipment, 

125 



depart in motor-trucks for that well-known place, Some- 
where Else. 

Saturday, August 10th 

Our little cart was emptied of its equipment — the ammu- 
nition cleaned, and we were just preparing to have our 
coffee, hardtack and "corned-woolly," when suddenly the 
order came through, "Pack Umbers again and be ready to 
leave immediately — the trucks aren't coming!" This 
proved to be only partly true. The trucks came to a point 
within a half-a-mile of us, but didn't care, I imagine, to 
negotiate a rather cranky hill. We drove to the top of 
the hill, and there loaded the equipment on the trucks, 
tumbling in ourselves on top of a nondescript mass of guns, 
ammunition and packs. Then began one wonderful 
twelve hours — wonderful in spite of the fact that during 
the course of it, we neither ate nor slept. 

As we lumbered on, we entered a section of country 
that has recently been evacuated by the enemy. This 
made the scenes remarkably different from those of the 
stagnant, cr/stallized front we left. Everywhere were 
signs of the struggle — the roads alone, as always, have 
been rebuilt and were nearly perfect. As for the rest — 
chaos! Piles of rubbish hurriedly thrown together — 
houses a mass of stone, slate, tile and freshly-splintered 
timber. Here a bridge blown up — there a huge shell-hole 
on the railroad, the bent and twisted ends of the rails 
vividly illustrating the force of the explosion. On every 
side, shell-holes — shell-holes — shell-holes. The roadsides, 
the houses, the broad grainfields are all dotted with 
them. One wonders how life could have existed in the 
midst of all that — but it did — and for many it must have 
been a triumphant crisis of life, too ! The enemy's need of 
certain materials is shown by the fact that every telegraph 
and telephone pole in this section had been carefully 
stripped of its wires, and also by the great junk-piles where 
other metals had been assembled, preparatory to being 
loaded and shipped back to Germany. 

Some of the towns we drove through were quite wealthy, 
with fine homes and public buildings, costly villas and 
beautifully-planned streets — but such wreckage you never 

126 



saw! Gaping holes in the stone and brick walls, giving 
glimpses into the looted remains of these once palatial 
rooms. Whenever he had time the Hun tarried to destroy! 
It was only when he was too sorely pressed for time that 
he left things of value unharmed. 

At about dark we became pretty drowsy, and several 
of the boys dropped off to sleep, although the road was 
bumpy, the truck a rough-rider, and the men's positions 
about as ludicrous as could be imagined — so only a few of 
us saw the towns we went through after dark. Just before 
midnight we entered another city (you can't imagine the 
struggle I have in writing this story without mentioning 
places! All these towns are by-words to you — and yet I 
can't "place myself" for you by telling you which of the 
hundreds of "war-towns" I'm talking about) — quite as 
battered as the rest. A short distance beyond the town 
limits we stopped, and in the pitch-black darkness un- 
loaded our equipment. We carried it into a wooden shack 
nearby, and I smiled as I looked suddenly up through a 
ten-foot shell-hole in its roof at the wise old stars that see 
all of this organized villainy, and wonder at the folly of 
"civilized" man. Our lieutenant led us over to a nearby 
wood, where we "flopped" for the night, right on the 
ground. 

Sunday, August 11th 

We awoke about eight o'clock, to a day of continual sur- 
prises. First, as we looked up at the trees, we found that 
they were literally torn to pieces — splintered trunks lying 
here and there, dead branches hanging everywhere. With- 
in two feet of our heads we found half a dozen boxes, each 
containing three live three-inch German shells. As we 
walked down the twenty yards of railroad track to the 
spot where Melidones was handing out the perpetual cof- 
fee, "corned woolly" and tack, we passed a German ma- 
chine gun emplacement literally buried in spent shells. 
Those boys didn't cut and run — they stuck ! Their ammu- 
nition, while perfectly serviceable, shows that they are 
facing a shortage of metals. Some of the shell-cases are 
of brass, and others of a rather poor grade of copper. The 
bullets themselves, instead of being of solid nickel like 

127 



ours, are ofhollow brass, rilled with some dark metal — 
lead, perhaps. 

Our camp is at the junction of two broad highways, and 
just on the other side of the road is a great supply ter- 
minal, with probably twenty lines of railway track, plat- 
forms and switches. East and west of theee tracks are 
wooden supply huts. Have you ever noticed photos of 
cyclone-stricken towns? That's the condition of those 
huts — many of them looking as though a giant had puffed 
at them — some nothing but a bullet-riddled mass of planks. 

On all sides, as far as the eye can see, are piles of ammu- 
nition — large and small shells, some burnt up, and others 
live — everything from two-inch "babies" up to ten-inch 
"Berthas." Of course, during the days that have elapsed 
since my birthday, when most of the rumpus here took 
place, much of the valuable material has been taken away, 
— but what is left is a sight indeed ! 

We went down the road a few hundred yards, following 
up a "tip" — to a group of wrecked barracks that had been 
occupied by German officers. In one of them we found 
what we sought — a myriad of bottles of precious mineral 
water — the finest you could imagine. A dozen or so of us 
went down and brought up crates of it to the camp. There 
were some funny sights, too — men washing and shaving 
in a cupful of the precious stuff! "Con" cutting my hair, 
with his razor and scissors in one hand and a green bottle 
of mineral water in the other ! Th e district is rehabilitating 
itself quite quickly — the dead have practically all been 
buried (although we did see one dead German, and a horse, 
which had been overlooked by the Pioneers — that organi- 
zation whose chief job is to police up the battlefields of 
France) — the French are transposing the abandoned 
ammunition in lorries, and getting such order as they can. 
Yesterday as we came through the towns that have been 
repatriated, we saw on all sides the signs of reconstruction; 
scrawled on the doors of many half ruined houses 
were the words "habitee" or "proprietaire ventre." Out in 
the fields were the peasants so lately refugees, cutting 
down the grain, a little over-ripe, but still of great value — 
many of them armed only with a sickle — carefully working 

128 



around the huge shell-holes, and cheerfully ignoring the 
many "dud" shells which may be exploded by the merest 
touch. But to come back to the sights of today. A mere 
chronicle couldn't cover them all — the wrecked planes, 
the German rifles and other equipment, including much 
that was brand new — helmets, belts, ammunition-boxes 
and other things — a whole building full of huge beer-kegs 
(unfortunately empty!) a dump perhaps fifty yards square, 
full of new boxes of hand-grenades, of the "potato-masher" 
type; the graves of Willy Schneider and another "Heinie" 
whose name I forget, who died on my birthday — I could 
keep it up for pages! 

Another "tip" furnished me with a German stretcher, 
which I purloined from a devastated shack. I'm lying on 
it now, and for desk I'm using a Hun ammunition box. 
Beside me are several bottles of this delicious drinking 
water of theirs — so you see, we're quite indebted to the 
Boche just now! 

As I write, every once in a while there's a heavy explo- 
sion. That's from the mines which the Germans sowed 
all through this region, but had no time to explode. The 
Pioneers are ferreting them out and making them harmless 
— a job I wouldn't relish a great deal. 

I'm enclosing a pipeful of the kind of tobacco that is 
being issued to the German soldiers now. Try it out. As 
far as we can see, they might just as well gather it up off 
the ground, because it's nothing but dried leaves! 

Several things have impressed me since we got here — 
first, that this is open, and therefore American warfare — 
(since we entered this district, we've hardly seen a trench!) 
second, that while the Germans undoubtedly lack certain 
things, their army is far from being ill-equipped. Such of 
their material as we have picked up hereabouts, with the 
exceptions I have mentioned, is of very good quality, and 
admirably designed. Evidently the people are sacrificing 
every sort of necessity in order that the equipment of the 
army may be kept up to standard. Oh! — in the multi- 
plicity of things to tell, I forgot to say that in the debris 
of the mineral-water shack, I found a piano, and viciously 
banged out "Liberty Bell" on it and all the other patriotic 

129 



ditties I could think of! Also, that in the same shack, 
there was a very beautiful buffet, of black walnut, exqui- 
sitely carved, the design including the date 1812 — crated, 
ready no doubt, to be sent by some Prussian officer as a 
souvenir for his wife. She'll never get it now! 

Monday, August 12th 

After our regular round of morning duties — washing, 
shaving, cleaning guns and pistols — we lazed till noon; 
then after mess, we decided to hike down to the nearest 
town, to seek out the Y. M. C. A. After a considerable 
walk through the devastated streets of the city, we at last 
discovered the place, located in what had been a German 
fliegerkeller (whatever that may be!). And after "Con" 
and I had stood there for an endless while, we managed to 
buy two cigars and two packages of (forgive me!) "Spear- 
mint" each. I gave him my cigars for his spearmint, and 
then, still in search of the elusive protein, we walked up 
to the main square — where all the results of centuries of 
beauty-cultivation — the huge bay-trees and shrubbery — 
were destroyed in a single night. Across the square was a 
great white residence, palatial in size and beauty, but 
marred by innumerable bullet-holes, and by a fifteen-foot 
shell-hole torn in its side. There, in the window was a 
pile of sardine-cans, and behind them a smiling poilu — 
the inevitable sign of a French canteen. They were all 
but sold out, so we contented ourselves with sardines and 
started home for mess. On the way I met my old infantry 
sergeant, and learned through him where the old company 
was quartered. After mess, I rambled through the woods 
until at last I found them — then in their midst once more 
found Warren Case. It's funny to run across the "Corp" 
this way, every once in a while. We went to my tent, 
and talked over old times, and told our experiences. They 
had a harder time than we, and lost several men. 

When Warren left it was bed-time, so after re-adjusting 
my war-map in agreement with the latest newspaper, I 
adjourned to the couch. 

Tuesday, August 13th 

As we move this afternoon, we loafed all morning, and 
part of the time slept. At about three, the transport of 

130 



our company drove up, footsore, weary and hungry — but 
there was to be no rest for them. We loaded our guns and 
equipment on the dusty little carts, and tied on the huge 
box of extra ammunition as best we could. Our work was 
just finished, when suddenly someone clapped me on the 
back. I turned, to face Gene Cathroll ! Behind him was 
the cannonette he's driving — a little trucklet that takes 
Y. M. C. A. supplies up to the front-line trenches. He's 
attached to our division, with headquarters in this town, 
and with him is his side-kick Gano, engaged in the same 
work. When I left him, we started on a short, uneventful 
hike, which landed us in a wood somewhat nearer the 
front. As it was clear, we just bunked on the ground. 

Wednesday, August 14th 

We're getting up to the front, all right! Last night the 
old artillery was booming all around us, and the Boche 
were answering, too. One Allied monster — probably a 
naval gun — is quite near us, and cut into our slumber to 
beat the band! We had one gas alarm during the night, 
but there was little if any gas near us. 

After seeing Warren and Cathroll, I figured I'd see a 
third old friend soon — and I did. Before breakfast this 
morning I was ambling down the road through the woods, 
when there loomed up before me a limping, dusty, worn- 
out figure in the uniform of a second lieutenant. It was 
Asbury — my old friend "Raz," who I told you some time 
ago had gotten his commission. He's been leading a 
battalion of doughboys all over this part of France, and is 
nearly fagged out. He came up to breakfast with us, and 
is coming back later. He's the same old "Raz," and I 
wish he were back with us. 

As I write, there are a dozen or so planes, some Boche 
and some Allied, right over our heads. They are indulging 
in some of the most surprising gyrations — nose-dives and 
every other sort of thing — but thanks to our noisy night, 
I'm going to sleep right within sight of an exhibition that 
would draw a crowd of fifty thousand back in the States 
— and so it goes! 

(Later) We started on the eventful journey very 
calmly (more or less, I thought later, like the Babes in the 

131 



Woods!). As the lines drew nearer, we strung out in a long 
line, single file behind our gun carts, with about fifty yards 
between each two men. We could see the red flashes of 
the Allied artillery, and hear the occasional burst of a 
Boche shell, but it was all more or less distant — impersonal; 
the fact that our cart was overloaded and tumbledy wor- 
ried us far more than shells! 

The winding road at last brought us within a short dis- 
tance of a wood. Here our transport stopped, and we set 
about unfastening the straps and ropes that held our load 
together. Suddenly the sky was made brilliant by Ger- 
man star-shells, and there was our transport, in a long 
black silhouette, outlined against the sky ! When darkness 
came again, we loaded on our backs all we could carry, 
and with the lieutenant started for our position. 

Swish! Crash! In we stumbled, slipping and sliding 
over branches, scrub, piles of old equipment and tangles 
of vines and bushes. We deposited our first load and then 
went back for the rest, leaving the lieutenant and two 
men behind. 

Then we struck it! Whether "Jerry" saw our transport, 
or was shelling the road, the wood or something else, we'll 
never know. It's enough that, intentionally or not, he 
shelled us! It was a real artillery barrage — shells raining 
all around us — the constant "Whang! Whang!" as they 
struck the ground accompanied by the buzz-saw whirl of 
flying bits of shell. Flat into shell-holes we ducked, mak- 
ing our way through shell-bursts and between them, 
toward the rear of the field, where the barrage seemed less 
dense. One 77 crashed into the earth just two feet from 
me, with a noise that I'll never forget! If I'd been ten 
feet away I'd probably be clubbing around with Napoleon 
and Caesar by now — but at two feet, the whole mess goes 
right over you! I guess my rabbit's foot was working for 
me that time, all right! When we got back to the road, 
"Jerry" started dropping gas shells. "Thud, Thud!" into 
the earth they go, with no explosion whatever. These we 
dreaded hardly at all, as our masks gave us full protection. 

At last the affair was ended, and we went back to the 
road, gathered up the rest of our belongings, and made for 

132 



our new "home," to be greeted by our lieutenant — who 
was, of course, certain that his flock had all gone to glory. 
But God was certainly with us, because out of the whole 
thirteen of us there wasn't so much as a scratch to show! 
We located two places for our squad trenches, and weary 
as we were, commenced to dig. All night we sweated, 
fighting "for dear life" this time in very truth! And by 
dawn, the hard, chalky earth had yielded us only a scant 
two feet of shelter! Of course, there was more or less 
shelling all night, but it's funny how quickly one gets used 
to them. When you've been in the line only a short time, 
you know "Jerry's" favorite spots, and as you hear one 

whistle overhead, you say, "That's going to ville," or 

" 'Jerry's' shelling the road again," and you go on with 
your work as though nothing was happening. 

You're drawn pretty close to the man next to you at a 
time like that — and you learn to know him, too. You 
spot the real men in an instant — and the yellow dogs, too, 
in the twinkling of an eye, and you learn to have a new 
respect for your officer when you see him get down in the 
ditch and wield a pick as hard as the next man ! 

Thursday, August 15th 

Our morning greeting was another gentle rain of shells, 
many of which were falling right in our tiny wood. We 
were driven from our half-finished trenches, and took 
shelter in some old funk-holes at the rear of the wood. 
The shells seemed to follow us there, too, s,o back we raced 
to our former shelter. Soon the din subsided, and we were 
able to lift up our heads and look about us. Wreckage? 
You bet! Three of "Fran's" ammunition boxes smashed 
to splinters, his belt and overcoat that had been hanging on 
a tree, riddled with shrapnel-holes — and us? Once again, 
not a scratch to show! 

Our trench by this time was nearly finished, so we 
started enlarging it, with a view to making a little dugout 
that would offer at least some shelter. Fortunately, the 
thick verdure over our heads enabled us to work in day- 
light. Tired to exhaustion though they were, the boys 
"carried on;" no one needed to ask for a relief at the pick 
or shovel — every one of them realized where salvation lay! 

133 



By dark the dugout began to show something for our 
efforts; a few planks at one end, covered with sandbags, 
offered partial protection; but we were nearly worn out. 
However, the gun had to be mounted and manned; so 
between nine and one "Con" and I sat at our posts, lis- 
tening to the night sounds of the front. 

Behind us, and a bit to our left, was a busy battery of 75's. 
I think "Jerry" hates the 75 as much for its triumphant 
sound as he does for its marvellous rapidity of fire. The 
shell leaves the gun with a musical hum that rises in sharp 
crescendo almost to a shriek. Then as the shell passes the 
sound dies away, then presently, far off, you hear the dull 
crash as the shell performs its mission somewhere behind 
the Boche lines. In sharp contrast to the 75 is another 
gun near us, which the boys have dubbed "Little 
Nemo." He's a little fellow — perhaps a one-pounder — but 
the noisiest, most impertinent rascal you can imagine. 
When his sharp, metallic ring sounds forth, someone in the 
crowd remarks impressively "Little Nemo has spoken!" 

As we sat there at the gun, "Fritz" launched a gas 
attack on a neighboring town. The shells passed directly 
in front of our position, and if I live to be a thousand I'll 
never forget the sound of them. There must have been 
literally thousands of them, each one singing its own little 
chromatic song, the ensemble like the sound of a thousand 
violins, each humming its own ascending and descending 
scale — you cannot imagine the weird effect they create, as 
their voices cross and criss-cross, giving the queerest dis- 
cords, with an occasional note of perfect harmony. 

When we were relieved, "Con" and I went in and slept 
like dead men — our first sleep in two full days. 

Friday, August 16th 

We progressed very well on our dugout today, and 
began to feel a real confidence in its shelter. The rocks 
that we sweated over as we dug them out, gave us addi- 
tional protection when placed on our roof, but they left 
us a pretty rough floor to sleep on ! 

Our residence (for seven) is seven feet long, less than 
five feet wide, and about four feet high; it is entered by a 
process very similar to "sliding down our cellar door," as 

134 



practiced in our best suburbs — only in this case the slide 
is of nice chalky earth! We've become quite expert, and 
when the shells start dropping in the neighborhood, we 
make our entrance in record time! 

We got fire orders today; at last, after six months of 
preparation, we're going to shoot — real bullets at real 
Huns. It's only harrassing fire, and there may be no 
Huns near where we're aiming, but at any rate, it's a start! 

Our little wood is hardly more than an acre of under- 
brush, but it's seen busy times in this old war. There are 
bits of German, French and American equipment scat- 
tered everywhere in it — clothing, mess-kits, helmets, old 
letters and newspapers — one can almost read the history 
of its skirmishes by the scattered debris. We celebrated 
our order to fire by making hot coffee, over a German 
alcohol Feldkocher that we picked up. That made the 
night guards a whole lot easier, as did also the few little 
shots that we fired off at intervals. 

Saturday, August 17th 

This morning we finished our dugout— and I celebrated 
by crawling down into its hot, stuffy, fly-infested midst, 
and sleeping for four hours, with my head propped up 
against a nice, soft rock, and an overcoat for covering. In 
the afternoon, Lieut. Ethridge gave me a very interest- 
ing hour of instruction, and showed me the methods used 
in setting a gun by map and compass. Our ration detail 
was fortunate last night in getting its full quota of eatables, 
so for one day we have lived well. We even had bacon 
tonight ! I fried it myself over another Boche alcohol lamp, 
and it certainly was luscious. The day has been much 
more quiet, so the camp was a far cheerier place. 

We set our gun in a new position, at the edge of the 
woods, camouflaged it with branches, and went on guard — 
Black and myself this time. Once the shelling got too 
close for us, and we ducked for shelter, but we were soon 
able to go back to our gun. 

There were big doings in the sector to our left — guns 
booming, houses burning, and at least two Hun ammuni- 
tion dumps going up in impotent smoke and flame. 

135 



As we sat at the gun, there was a crashing in the brush 
and Lieut. Harris came breezing in, with his "Kinder- 
garten" behind him. That's what we call the troop of 
fellows who come up each night to see the positions, 
relieve one or two, or carry ammunition. They're always 
more or less scared, and we "old-stagers" of a week's 
growth, of course retail to them all the horrors of our 
position. They brought us water, sandbags and news — 
we couldn't quite figure out which of the three was most 
welcome! The lieutenant also brought us new fire orders, 
which will mean even less sleep for ye corporal. Oh, well — ! 

Sunday, August 18th 

I rose early, and looked around to see if the coffee could 
be gotten under way — but, alas! The Germans hadn't 
left us enough lamps! Then I tried to make a smokeless 
wood fire in our dugout. Rats! If I'd been trying to 
make an anti-bug smudge, I couldn't have smoked 
more successfully! At last, necessity helped us out, and 
we made a roaring-hot, smokeless fire, with what? Simply 
a strip of burlap, rolled up, with two ordinary candles 
sliced up and rolled inside it! Try it some time. Then I 
discovered the sad news that our ration boys came home 
last night empty-handed. There was a slip somewhere 
between the ration-dump and us, so we had to delve into 
our reserve of hard biscuits and "woolly." 

However, we were well supplied with water by our 
industrious water-detail (they carry canteens and pails 
right across the fields just after dark — exposed to enemy 
fire, it's true, but what's thet compared with a wash and 
a drink?) — so we shaved, washed, combed the kinks (and 
the chalk!) out of our hair, and then sat around like 
children, admiring our regained beauty! For supper — 
you may smile, but I can tell you we didn't! — one cracker, 
two sardines. 

We rearranged our gun-guard tonight, placing the 
guards of "Fran's" gun and mine, for safety's sake, at a 
central point near an old dugout, from where the signal 
to fire would be plainly visible. 

We got no signal to fire — but other folks did, and all 
night the sky was bright with the flare of more Boche 

136 



ammunition dumps, blown sky-high by our artillery. We 
had a slight attack of mustard gas, but because of our 
elevated position, it bothered us but little. Things quieted 
down enough after midnight so that I got about four 
hours of real sleep before breakfast. 

Monday, August 19th 

You can bet we were hungry when we crawled out of our 
hole this morning! — and this time fortune was good to us. 
The old burlap ration-bag was bulging. What if the jam 
and the celery, the doughnuts and the coffee were all mixed 
up? They were'there — that was the important thing; and 
bread and butter, too, and sweet Red Cross crackers, and 
a can of pears! Oh, what a day! 

Both Lieut. Ethridge and Lieut. Harris spent this 
morning figuring on new firing orders, and after lunch we 
set our gun for the new work. Ye corporal will be at his 
gun from nine to twelve, firing with one man of his team, 
and from three to five with another man. The rest of ye 
corporal's time is his own! 

"Con" and I fired for the first period, and then retired 
to the dugout. But try as I would, I couldn't sleep. The 
sleeping forms seemed to fill the little hole absolutely, 
and I sat on a sharp rock, with my head against another 
one, and tried for an hour to coax unwilling slumber. But 
she was not to be coaxed, so I crawled out and sat out in 
the air, until three o'clock came. And I was repaid by 

seeing the city of B in flames, kindled probably by our 

artillery. It blazed for two or three hours, and was still 
smoldering at dawn, when we drew in our gun, stowed 
away the camouflage and took down our fire screen. This, 
by the way, is a huge contraption designed to conceal the 
flash of our gun. It's made of sandbags, raincoats, 
shelter-halves and sticks, the whole held together with a 
weird assortment of tent-ropes, shoe-laces, strings, hand- 
kerchiefs and straps. It's no beauty, but believe me, it's a 
true friend! 

Tuesday, August 20th 

The ration party last night garnered the precious news 
of coming mail, and also brought, us chocolate and 

137 



cigarettes, so the morning was a cheery one. After break- 
fast, as usual, we had our siesta, and then cleaned guns and 
helped "Fran" to prepare his gun for the all-night firing 
session. Ours will remain silent unless signalled to fire. 
"Fran" ran into a nice little artillery barrage in the wee, 
sma' hours, but his boys stuck it out and fired their full 
quota, and none of them cashed in. Maj. Baxter was 
right: "It's surprising how many bullets it takes to kill a 
man!" 

Wednesday, August 21st 

Once more we're on light rations. It's no easy job 
bringing up supplies over roads subjected to constant 
shelling, but that doesn't make it any easier for us up here. 
I guess it's worse on an open front like this than on one 
where the front line can be reached through sheltered 
trenches. But no trench systems for mine! They spell 
stagnation. 

— And the mail-bag went to Lieut. Miller's position! 
When George Wood and I heard that, we looked at each 
other. George knew I loved my mail and I knew he loved 
his. We glanced at the heavy fog-bank that hid the Ger- 
man lines. "Shall we make a break for it, George?" I 
asked. "Sure" — and we went and got the mail, though by 
the time we were on our way back, our protecting fog- 
bank had faded into thin air. 

And more news! Tomorrow we leave the lines, turning 
over all our equipment to the relieving company! That 
is the most joyous news we've had in a week, and coupled 
with the ecstasy of letter-reading made us all hardly fit 
for soldiering. 

We spent the afternoon proving that you can't sleep 
and swat hordes of flies — and then went through an aver- 
age front-line night. 

Thursday, August 22nd 

Well ! The Alpha and Omega of our stay in the front 
line are certainly the interesting parts! The Boche have 
picked this morning to make a little attack in our sector, 
and we've spent the whole day firing, until our ammuni- 
tion was nearly used up. We can't see the Boche — that's 

138 



the tantalizing part of it. "Hig" and I did snipe two this 
afternoon, though, and great was the rejoicing. If they 
get us now, we've at least got an even break with Kaiser 
Bill — and I'll venture that the few thousand pills we've 
peppered into those woods have caught a few more and 
sent them to whatever is German for "Blighty." 

This afternoon a lieutenant and what was left of his 
platoon took refuge in our woods. They were pretty 
much shot up, hungry and almost crazy with thirst. They 
drank up all our water before we knew it, and before dark 
I was so thirsty myself from the heat of our gun that I 
drank ravenously out of a canvas bucket of soapy water in 
which at least two of us had washed ! And do you know, it 
wasn't so bad, at that. 

When I went to bed ( !) at midnight, it was with no hope 
of being relieved tonight, and with the full expectation of 
being called to help "repel boarders" before dawn. Imagine 
m y j°y> then, at being awakened at about two, to find 
the relieving squads there, and our march back to the 
reserves protected by a huge, Allied barrage, that kept 
"Jerry's" guns silent and their snipers ducking for cover! 

It was quite a drag, and we were worn out — but I never 
remember in all my life, being more willing to hike ! 

Once more my bed was the ground, an overcoat my 
coverlet, and a bush my shelter from vagrant breezes. 

Friday, August 23rd 

We rested today — though it's hardly a real rest when 
the shells are breaking within a hundred yards of you, and 
you have to pitch your tent over a hole in the ground for 
fear of getting clipped! However, it's aeons better than the 
front line. And oh! uncounted glory! Packages! Pack- 
ages from England, one with fruit cake, and the other full 
of chocolates, gathered painfully, a quarter of a pound 
in each shop, and then assembled in a big tin box! How 
we did guzzle ! Incidentally, I take off my hat once more 
to the mind-reading U. S. Mail. Could any genius have 
found a more psychological moment for bringing civilized 
sweets on the scene? And magazines, too — my tent has 
become a regular circulating library! 

139 



Saturday, August 24th 

A bit of excitement this afternoon! A "ranging" shot 
from a German artillery piece dropped right in our midst. 
Nothing but Providence saved us from having a dozen or 
more casualties. As it was, Clarence How gathered in a 
bit of shrapnel in the back and went jogging off to the 
hospital on a stretcher, grinning at the prospect of a 
couple of weeks' rest and coddling. 

Sunday, August 25th 

Today is Sunday, and we celebrated it, first by a class in 
First Aid, and then by a church service. After the ser- 
mon, the Chaplain conducted a special little Holy Com- 
munion service for those of us who wanted it. I took it as 
a sort of "Solomonic justice" that the "fair linen cloth" 
was laid over a German ammunition box! 

After lunch, with much ceremony and sorrow, I sent 
Henry Wrist-Watch, my best friend, to England to be 
mended. May fortune grant him a safe (and speedy!) 
return ! 

I was awakened during the night by the trickle of muddy 
water down my forehead and nose. It was raining, and 
our little tent was unable quite to span our funk-hole! — 
hence the mud. It is indicative of the development of 
my soldier training that I merely swore mildly, pulled my 
blanket over my head, rolled over and went to sleep again! 

Monday, August 26th 

Today has been uneventful until this evening. At about 
twenty minutes' notice I and three of my squad up-staked 
and hiked off to man one of the anti-aircraft guns here- 
abouts. To our surprise and pleasure, we found ourselves 
located in the grounds of a ruined chateau! It was too 
dark to do much exploring, so we picked out the two 
choicest of the myriad little dugouts in the vicinity, and 
prepared for the night. We might have saved ourselves 
the trouble, for when darkness fell, we found that we 
were in the midst of a whole country-side full of guns, 
which managed to make the first three-quarters of the 
night sleepless, and the last quarter hideous — except when 

140 



one mused gleefully over the dodging "Jerries" at the 
other end! 

Tuesday, August 27th 

Ruin that is absolute is never so affecting as ruin which 
leaves behind it traces of former grandeur. And that is 
what surrounds us here. A huge line of almost primeval 
trees — scarred and broken by a shell-fire that could not 
succeed in destroying their majesty; a park, its lawns 
trampled by cavalry, pockmarked with funk-holes and 
dugouts, its paths untrimmed and scattered with debris — 
and yet as lovely as ever under the radiance of a kindly 
moon; a pool, clogged and stagnant, yet still reflecting the 
ancient elms and pines, and the flowers that now grow 
wild along its banks; and the chateau itself, its main wing 
a mass of stones and timbers, but its corner tower almost 
unharmed, and sheltering some relics still of its glorious 
past. 

The first floor of this tower was the library; and here at 
the old gentleman's secretary I'm sitting as I write. Behind 
me is a bookcase full of rare old volumes, some in manu- 
script, and many of them probably priceless. Why they 
were left unharmed no one can say — but there they are, 
and my good friend and fellow-delver, Fred Schmitt, is 
burrowing into their fascinating depths as I write. 

Scattered all about the room, and half-buried in the 
broken plaster, laths and draperies that cover the floor, are 
countless old deeds and papers, beautifully engrossed on 
parchment, full of delicately-drawn and colored maps and 
plans. Some of them date back to the sixteenth century. 
They would make wonderful souvenirs, but none of us 
seem to want to take them. Who knows? Perhaps when 
Monsieur comes back to his shattered castle, he may be 
able to rescue from that hopeless-looking pile, some pos- 
sessions of his that the world's store of gold could not 
replace. No; we'll leave them for Monsieur; the hand of 
war has borne on him heavily enough. But surely we 
may browse about a bit, and gather what we can of the 
history of the place and its owners — yes, and there's a bit 
of scandal, too, hidden here and there among these vener- 
able old parchments, and others not so ancient! 

141 



This afternoon I went to the nearest Y. M. C. A., missed 
Walter Gano by a fraction of a minute, and had rather 
poor picking, as they were about sold out. However, a 
trip back to company headquarters was productive of a 
little Red Cross chocolate, which appeased our ravenous 
appetites a bit. Then "Con" got a package from home, 
which his wife had miraculously mailed on the captain's 
order, so we feasted for the first time in four months on 
American-made sweets — a treat indeed! 

The watches tonight were much more quiet — we actually 
got some sleep! 

Wednesday, August 28th 

Our off-duty hours were spent in exploring the endless 
nooks and corners of the chateau; and for the last hour or 
two I've been here at the old boy's desk scrivening. I 
think I'll stop now and join "Schmitty" for a while in explor- 
ing the depths of our host's library. And now it's nearly 
dark — I'll have to quit and go back to our little camp, roll 
my pack, and prepare for the less-joyous-than-usual task 
of being relieved. Leaving this place is quite a wrench — 
it's a friendly old garden, with its paternal trees and 
quaint, rambling outbuildings. I have a queer feeling 
that I'll come back some day. 

The day ended with no further event than our return to 
camp and a cold dinner. 



Q&itf> . P, /(\ £&+i*jJnJ4 



[This was the last diary-letter received from Sergt. Campbell, he having been 
promoted to the rank of Sergeant a few days before his death. A subsequent report 
stated that "Sergt. Campbell was killed on the night of Wednesday, September 4, 
1918, after having done noble work in giving first aid to a number of his comrades 
under heavy shell fire."] 

142 



The Four Members of the Pratt& Lambert 
Family Who Made the Supreme Sac- 
rifice in the Cause of Democracy 

Answering the call to service, the following P&L men 
willingly left peaceful occupations to uphold and defend the 
right of liberty — to offer their all, if necessary, upon the 
Altar of Freedom. 

CADET GEORGE BIERBAUM, aged twenty-four 
years, left the grinding room of the Buffalo factory to 
enlist in the Aviation Corps shortly after our declaration 
of war. Having previously served in the regular army, he 
promptly answered his Country's call, hoping to win a 
coveted commission as an aviator. He was fatally injured 
in an aeroplane accident at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, Decem- 
ber 28, 1917. While with us but a short time, we take 
solemn pride in adding his name to those on the P&L 
Honor Roll who have "gone West." 

SERGT. PEYTON RANDOLPH CAMPBELL, aged 
twenty-four years, Assistant Advertising Manager of 
Pratt & Lambert-Inc, left that position to enter Co. D, 
306th Machine Gun Batn., early in 1918. With seven- 
teen others of his unit, on September 4, 1918, near Fismes, 
France, "Randy" was killed by a shell, after having ren- 
dered heroic service to wounded comrades. 

This talented master advertising man wrote not only 
effective sales literature, but short stories and songs — 
being no mean musician. Locally, one of his best known 
creations was the facsimile newspaper front page announc- 
ing the supposed invasion of the United States by the 
Germans, written to boost the Second Liberty Loan. 

On the way overseas, and until his death, "Randy" 
wrote a diary-letter to his mother. These diary-letters, 
recently published in book form, contain characteristic 
touches of humor and philosophy, and proclaim him an 
able writer, an affectionate son and a loyal and modest 
soldier. 



PTE. CHARLES JOHN FICKEL, aged twenty- 
three years, was a conscientious P&L employee who rose 
in three years from packer to Assistant Superintend- 
ent in the Bridgeburg factory, Ontario. Leaving Bridge- 
burg, his home, April 10, 1918, Pte. Fickel, convalescing 
from an illness, went overseas with a draft contin- 
gent, as No. 3314548 of the 50th Batn., 8th Inf., Cana- 
dian Reserves. After training two months at Camp Whit- 
ley, England, having fully recovered his health, he was 
sent to a front-line trench in France, where he was killed 
the first day by shell concussion. The same determination 
to do his best was manifested in his conduct as a soldier. 

PTE. THEODORE COLLEY WILLIAMS, aged 
twenty-four years, lost his life June 19, 1918, the second 
day of the big Allied drive at Soissons, France. First 
stationed at Camp Dix, N. J., Pte. Williams, or "Theo," 
as he was affectionately called by his associates, left for 
overseas February, 1918, in 2d Co., 4th Inf., Training 
Batn., Depot Div., 1st Corps., A. E. F., in which service 
he was made Acting Corporal. Upon his request, he was 
subsequently transferred as a private to Co. C, 28th Inf., 
1st Div., A. E. F. This contingent of "regulars" participated 
in the drive which marked the turning point of the war. 

Leaving Thomaston, Maine, as a youth, "Theo" came 
to the Buffalo factory, where for the past six years he was 
employed as a varnish-maker, being in the Car and Rail- 
road Department at the time of entering the service. His 
winning smile will be remembered by his many friends, 
who can find in this erstwhile varnish-maker the type of 
American who smiles even at death, knowing that his 
passing is his contribution to mankind. 

* * * * 

The World War has thus brought home to the P&L 
Family the fact that war is not all glory — that it brings 
in its wake cruel wounds which Time alone can heal. 
Such examples of heroism and fidelity to a noble cause, 
furnished by these former associates, can only inspire us, 
their debtors, to steadfast, faithful allegiance to every 
high purpose represented by the flag for which they fought 
and died. 



^ 



LBAp'19 






Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: ^ 2001 

PreservationTechnologies 

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